


We Are Young

by montecarlos



Category: GP2 RPF
Genre: Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Making Out, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Romance, Porn, Sex, Smut, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 22
Words: 36,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7639777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montecarlos/pseuds/montecarlos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place for me to store all my GP2 ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Virginity (Pierre/Alex)

**Author's Note:**

> After writing this fic for Emma (who else?), and realising it was over 2k, I made the decision to put the fics up on here to make it easier to be read and so I had a place for all my GP2 ficlets. For the prompt; Pierre/Alex + "Shit sorry, am I going to fast fast?" (Alex taking Pierre's virginity tbh)
> 
> This one contains underage sex, making out and such like. Typical boys. I wanted to write a story where losing your virginity wasn't the happy thing it's usually portrayed as.
> 
> Alex/Pierre
> 
> Enjoy! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex takes Pierre's virginity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a place for me to post all my GP2 fics and for my readers to be able to find them and read them more easily.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“I want you to take my virginity,” Pierre remembers how pale Alex’s face turned when the words left his lips. He’d spent over an hour, sitting next to the Brit, plucking up the courage to say them in the first place. He’d watched his best friend, his dark hair messy from football practise, scribble away into his notepad, tongue caught between his lips.    
  
“What, Pierre, where did this come from?” Alex finally finds his voice, cheeks bright red from embarrassment.    
  
“I’ve wanted to ask you for ages now, since I heard about you and Mitch-”   
  
“Me and Mitch?” Alex says, worrying his lip, his textbook forgotten. “What are you talking about?”   
  
“You said that you were glad you lost it to him because you trusted him, because you knew he was the right person to do it with-”   
  
“Yeah? You’ll find the person you were supposed to do it with, Pierre,” Alex says, blush still clinging to his cheeks.    
  
“I know who I want to lose it to,” Pierre spits out, trying not to look at Alex’s face, not to look at the ruffled hair and the slightly red cheeks. “I want it to be you,” He forces the words out, watching his best friend’s mouth fall open.    
  
“Pear, what-” Alex begins, eyes wide.    
  
“I want it to be with someone that I trust, someone I know will look after me, that knows what they’re doing,” Pierre says, knowing he’s talking too fast, that he’s in danger of lapsing into French. “I just...I wanted it to be you,”   
  
“Me?” Alex says, his eyes still wide and his face pale. “I, Pear, that’s a big thing you’re asking me to do-”   
  
“I know,” Pierre says, looking down at the bedsheets. “I just..I wanted to know if it was as good as you said it was,”   
  
Alex’s tongue moves to dart out and wet his dry, chapped lips. “I don’t know if this is a good idea,”   
  
“Please, Lex,” Pierre whispers, his eyes finally meeting those of his best friend. “Please, I don’t want anyone else,”   
  
Alex sighs heavily, closing his textbook. “Are you sure about this?”   
  
Pierre nods once as Alex moves in closer, his hand cupping his cheek. Alex’s hands are soft and warm against his cheek and he finds himself leaning into the touch, his heart beating faster against his chest as Alex moves in closer, his breath dancing over Pierre’s face. Pierre smiles at his best friend and closes the gap between them, their lips moving against each other. Alex’s lips are chapped and they stick to his own as they fold over each other, Pierre’s glasses knocking against Alex’s nose.    
  
“Lex,” Pierre whines against Alex’s lips, feeling the warm, fuzzy sensation spread over his lower abdomen as Alex’s hands move to close around his hip and pull him closer, their lips still gently brushing over each other. Pierre feels the warmth curl up over his chest as Alex’s hand slides to gently tug at his hair, the other still settling over his hip. Their kisses are slow, sloppy, Pierre focuses on brushing his lips against Alex’s, unsure of where he should place his hands.    
  
Alex smiles, slowly guiding Pierre down to the bedsheets, their lips still connected together as they kiss slowly, Alex’s tongue flicking out to tease the crease of Pierre’s lips. Pierre opens his mouth tentatively to allow Alex’s tongue into his mouth, the taste of mint and sweat dancing over his mouth as Alex’s tongue presses inside, their teeth clacking together as Alex slowly traces his tongue over every inch of Pierre’s mouth. Pierre’s glasses knock themselves askew as he shifts his head, Alex’s hand still tangled into his hair.    
  
“Alex, please,” He whispers, his eyes slightly half-lidded, looking up at his best friend. “Alex, I-” He continues from between swollen lips, feeling Alex’s muscular body pressing against his own, the swell in Alex’s trousers brushing over his thigh. Alex moans against his mouth, rubbing himself against the French teenager, his hands moving to slide away Pierre’s scratchy blazer as his lips move to map over Pierre’s smooth chin.    
  
“Does that feel okay?” Alex whispers against his skin, nipping gently at the freckled, pale skin of his best friend, smiling as Pierre gasps out underneath him, arching his back, arching into Alex’s touch. Alex continues to kiss him slowly, his lip moving to circle over Pierre’s collarbone, his shirt still sticking to his sweaty skin. Alex finds himself getting ahead of himself, his teeth scraping over the pale skin, feeling Pierre jolt underneath him, a shaky breath pulls itself from his lips.    
  
“Shit, sorry, did I hurt you?” Alex whispers, his brown eyes focused on Pierre, searching for the consent to continue.    
  
“It’s okay,” Pierre mutters back, capturing the taller teenager’s lips once more, his hands sliding Alex’s blazer away from his shoulders as their tongues tangle together, sighs held between swollen lips. “I’m okay,” He mutters against Alex’s lips as he presses him into the sheets, his hands moving down to slide Pierre’s trousers down slowly. Pierre feels the gasp as the cool air hits his bare skin as Alex pulls himself away, his dark brown eyes taking in the sight of Pierre’s hardened cock.    
  
“So beautiful,” Alex whispers, leaning down to pepper kisses over Pierre’s jawline, his hand moving to ghost over Pierre’s balls, moving to curl around his shaft. Pierre gasps into the air as Alex’s hands move over his swollen cock, his fingers stroking over his balls, moving to trace down his shaft, smearing the thin, clear pre-come over his fingers. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Alex whispers with a smirk on his face as he strokes Pierre’s cock, the French teenager’s trousers bunched up around his knees, he surges up, arching his back, his lips fall open as Alex’s hands move over his sensitised dick, building up into a slow, steady rhythm.    
  
“Lex, fuck, that feels so good,” Pierre whispers, feeling his eyes close at the sensation, the heat building, soaking down into his inner thighs. He feels himself sink into Alex’s touch, Alex’s body still hard against his own, Alex’s calloused fingers stroking over his hardened dick. “I never knew it could feel like-like-” He feels the heat curl further into his thighs, throws his head back into the pillows, his hair clinging to his forehead.    
  
“Pear,” Alex whispers, his name tumbling from between the plush lips. “Are you sure you want this? We can forget it for now,” He says, his hand pausing for a moment. “I need you to be certain,”   
  
“Alex, please, I want this,” Pierre pleads. Alex’s hand continues moving, tracing over his dick, grasping his balls with a feather-light touch, teasing him as his fingers curl over the sheets. However, he feels something enter him, something wet and hard and arches himself away from it instinctively, the curl of pain blossoming through the warmth.    
  
“Lex, what-” He begins, opening his eyes. “What’s that-”   
  
Alex worries his lip as he glances down at the flash of pain on Pierre’s face. “That was the tip of my finger, you’re really tight, I don’t know if we should-”   
  
Pierre thinks about the heat still curling in his thigh and shakes his head. “Please, I want to try,”   
  
“If it’s too much, you have to tell me,” Alex says carefully. “I don’t want to hurt you,” His voice is soft and Pierre finds himself nodding as he settles back against the sheets, readies himself for the blossom of pain, the heat starting to ebb away a little.    
  
“Pear, you have to relax,” Alex says playfully. “You’re strung so tight,” He says, dipping his head to press kisses against Pierre’s smooth jawline, dipping down to the curve of his neck. His tongue moves over the tiny freckles that decorate his best friend’s neck as he feels Pierre relax against him as he tries once more. He feels Pierre jolt against him, as his lips continue dancing over Pierre’s neck, his other hand still stroking over the teenager’s cock. “It’s okay,” He mutters against the pale skin as Pierre arches against him, his finger slowly pushing in and out. Pierre slowly begins to relax into his touch, his lips tracing over every inch of sweaty skin as their bodies mould against each other, Pierre’s glasses still askew from where Alex had knocked him earlier.    
  
“Lex, god, that’s amazing,” Pierre gasps out, his legs parting ever so slightly as Alex smiles against his skin before he carefully adds another well-lubed finger into Pierre, only for the teenager to jump at the sensation, arching away from Alex. “Fuck, fuck, that hurts,” Pierre says, his features alight with pain as he worries his lip. Alex kisses his face, worry flooding over his face as he tries to move his fingers slowly.    
  
“I’m sorry,” Alex whispers. “Do you want me to stop?”   
  
“No,” Pierre mutters, his voice laced with pain. “Just move them a bit, it might help?” Alex obliges, his hand stroking over Pierre’s hip as his lips find the French teenagers once more. His tongue slides past Pierre’s lips, the taste of Pierre - slightly sweet, like pineapples - moves over his mouth and Pierre melts under his touch once more, his sighs of satisfaction punctuated by a sharp intake of breath the first few times that Alex thrusts his fingers in and out of Pierre. But after the first few minutes, Pierre sinks into the sheets, responding to Alex’s kisses, his thighs slightly parted, his lips awash with hurried French, ecstasy brushing over his face. Alex smiles and brushes a chaste kiss against his best friend’s lips.    
  
“I think you’re ready,” Alex says quietly as he slides his fingers out of Pierre.    
  
“That was quick,” Pierre says with a raised eyebrow.    
  
“Doesn’t take long to prepare someone when they’re ready for it,” Alex says softly. “Are you sure you want this? I mean you can still say no-”   
  
“Lex,” Pierre says quietly. “Fuck me already,”   
  
“Pierre,” Alex repeats again, his eyes locked on his best friend. “I need you to be sure,”   
  
“And I am,” Pierre says. Alex says nothing more as he leans over to the side, opens his bedside drawer and pulls out a tube and a small silver packet. Pierre worries his lip as he watches Alex tear open the packet with his teeth. The curl of anxiety settles in his chest as Alex rolls the condom down onto his hardened cock. Pierre feels something curl inside his abdomen at the size of Alex’s cock - it’s huge and thick, with thick, dark hair at the base. He bites down on his lip as he watches Alex squirt a huge dollop of lube into his hand, smearing the clear, thick liquid over his cock.    
  
“You okay?” Alex says, meeting Pierre’s eyes. Pierre smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his lips as he settles back down into the pillows. Alex smiles back as he leans back in, brushing Pierre’s sweaty hair back from his forehead before their lips meet again. Pierre responds to the kiss, leaning into it, their sweaty bodies brushing together, their tongues pushing against one another. He’s so lost in Alex’s kisses that he doesn’t notice Alex lining himself up, not until something breaches him and he hisses in pain, the warmth disappearing.    
  
Alex looks down at him with worry in his eyes. “That was just the tip, do you want me to-”   
  
“No, no,” Pierre says, shaking his head, tears beading up in his eyes as he shifts slightly, the pain shooting through his lower body. “Maybe it would be better if you moved-” He begins as Alex worries his lip, easing a little more of his dick into Pierre, only for the teenager to bite back a scream, his fingernails scraping at the bedsheets.    
  
“Pear, pear,” Alex says softly, his hand stroking over Pierre’s cheek. “I’m pulling out-”   
  
“Please don’t,” Pierre says, tears in his eyes. “I can take it, I promise-”   
  
“Pear,” Alex says, sighing heavily. “You’re not ready, it’s okay, we can try it another time,”   
  
Pierre shakes his head. “I don’t want to, I bet Mitch and the others didn’t,”   
  
“Mitch and the others aren’t you, Pear,” Alex says, slowly pulling out of Pierre. Pierre feels the tears fall down his cheeks as he rolls over, screwing his eyes up, feeling the shame roll over him. He hears Alex peel off the condom before the tall Brit moves to tentatively lay down next to Pierre, curling around his back. “Pear, please,” He says quietly, his hand moving to stroke over Pierre’s elbow. “It’s okay,”   
  
“I just wanted it to be- like you said-” Pierre says, his voice wet.    
  
“The first time never is, I really hurt Mitch the first time we did it,” Alex pauses. “I could never do that to you,” His fingers find Pierre’s, stroking over his thumb.    
  
“I want to-”    
  
“I know,” Alex says, squeezing the French teenager’s hand. “But we’ve got enough time to try again haven’t we?” He says, a small smile ghosting over his lips.    
  
Pierre smiles back, moving closer to the tall Brit, sighing as the pain slowly leaves his body, Alex’s hands protectively pressing over him. He feels Alex’s lips gently press a kiss to the shell of his ear, his breath briefly ruffling his ear and the smile remains on his lips, their hands still tangled together.


	2. Pillow (Sean/Antonio)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not worth celebrating if you’re not with me,” Sean says, a smile ghosting over his face as Antonio shifts slightly, his head ending up in Sean’s lap. He’s quiet, his hand still linked with Sean’s, the taller boy’s thumb brushing gently over his wrist, his other hand moving to gently card through Antonio’s soft hair. 
> 
> Or three times Antonio used Sean as a pillow.
> 
> Antonio/Sean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic would not have been possible without my squad but with special thanks to Amy on this one. I'd been struggling to write all day and she hits me with a platonic boys prompt, and well, here's the result. Throw me in the bin. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

_ One. _   
  
Sean worries his lip as he steps out of his car, lifting his hand to the cheering Malaysian fans. The heat makes the sweat roll down his back, makes the collar of his scratchy overalls itchy. His eyes fall on the big black three next to his car - he feels proud that he’s managed to get it on the podium, feels proud that he’s done a good job in the penultimate race. He runs to his engineers, grins widely as they slap him on the back, congratulate him in Indonesian. Sean feels like he’s floating, dizziness pressing over his vision as he takes in huge gulps of the hot, humid air, before a familiar pair of dark green eyes meet brown ones.    
  
“Congratulations, Seanitelli,” Antonio whispers, wide grin on his face as he leans over the barrier, his hands moving over the shiny carbon fibre of his helmet. “Knew you could do it,”   
  
Sean can’t find the words to reply, but he returns the hug, taking in the scent of Antonio - the slight curl of motor oil, sweat and Lynx. His fingers trace over Antonio’s back, his eyes closing, letting the heat wash over him, his hand tangling with Antonio’s subconsciously. “Wish you were coming up here with me,”   
  
“Soon, mate,” Antonio says, grinning as he pulls himself away. “Now, go and get the bling bling,”   
  
Sean grins, their hands untangling from each other, going to claim his prize. He stands on the podium, feeling the sweat drip down his back as he grins and yells out to the crowd, his gaze landing on Antonio leaning against the barrier and he smiles widely.   
  


* * *

  
  
He rejects the team’s invitation to celebrate his win, setting off to the Eurasia motorhome with his third place trophy under his arm. Antonio has disappeared after the podium celebrations, probably gone back to the motorhome, he’s not one for parties. The air is still thick with heat and he pulls at his sweaty fireproofs as he shuffles to the motorhome, knowing that the other drivers will probably still be partying at the track. He furrows his brow at the darkness as he steps inside.    
  
“Tonio?” He calls out, glancing around before he turns on the light, only to stop in his tracks.    
  
“Tonio,” he whispers, his eyes falling on the slight figure on the couch.    
  
Antonio is dressed in a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms and what looks like one of Sean’s oversized hoodies, the words  _ Jakarta’s Most Wanted _ standing out in bold white letters. He’s obviously been in the shower; his hair still wet and mussed, free from product. He looks younger than his seventeen years. Sean finds himself folding his taller body onto the couch, his hand immediately seeking out the older boys. Antonio lifts his head, his green eyes moving to lock on Sean’s.    
  
“You’re not out celebrating?” He asks in a small voice.    
  
“Of course not,” Sean says softly, brushing back the soft curls from Antonio’s forehead. “Why would I be out drinking when you’re here on your own?”   
  
“You should be out,” Antonio says, ignoring Sean’s words. “You don’t want me dragging you down when you should be happy about your podium,”    
  
“It’s not worth celebrating if you’re not with me,” Sean says, a smile ghosting over his face as Antonio shifts slightly, his head ending up in Sean’s lap. He’s quiet, his hand still linked with Sean’s, the taller boy’s thumb brushing gently over his wrist, his other hand moving to gently card through Antonio’s soft hair.    
  
“You need a haircut,” He says, quietly, his hands gently tugging on the soft strands.    
  
“Maybe I’ll shave it all off,” Antonio jokes quietly, his hand squeezing Sean’s, his eyes slowly squeezing shut. “Have my rebellious teenage phase,”   
  
“Don’t cut it off,” Sean says, his hands still moving through the curls. “I love your hair,” Silence sinks between the pair for a moment before Sean leans back, his hands still twisting through Antonio’s hair, his thumb brushing over the tiny curls at the nape of his neck. “Sorry about the race today,”   
  
“Just a bad day,” Antonio mutters, shifting slightly, as Sean’s thumb strokes over his wrist. “There’s still another race, right?”   
  
“So when you win tomorrow, can I squeeze into one of your hoodies?” Sean asks, smirk playing on his lips.    
  
“You’re not stretching out my hoodies. Besides, I like this one, it’s comfy and it smells of you,” Antonio says, his voice muffled by Sean’s knee.    
  
“You need to gain some weight to even fit into it properly, Tonio,” Sean says, his hands stroking over the delicate bones in Antonio’s wrist.    
  
“I don’t-” Antonio says, biting back a yawn.    
  
“You should get yourself to bed,” Sean says, fighting the urge to yawn himself. “You’ll wake up with backache,”   
  
“I don’t want to, I’m comfortable here,” Antonio says, yawning once more.    
  
“Of course,” Sean says, feeling the tiredness tug on his eyelids as he continues to card his hand through Antonio’s hair, feels the Italian relax against him, his hand still curled with Sean’s slackens slightly as his breathing deepens. Sean smiles as Antonio falls asleep against him, clearly exhausted. He leans down and brushes his lips against the soft, dark curls - barely a touch - before he leans back into the couch, feels the tiredness tug on his bones as sleep claims him.    
  


* * *

  
  
_Two._

Antonio is different in Thailand. They’re both racing for Sean can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong - he watches his best friend carefully, watches him smile as he folds himself into the car, ready to takeover. Sean hovers in the pits, wipes the sweat away from his forehead as he watches Antonio drive the car away, disappearing around the corner. He thinks about disappearing back to the motorhome for a cup of coffee but he finds himself drawn to the screens, watching their car side easily through the corners, a small smile dancing over his lips. The heat bears down on him as he brushes the sweat away.   
  
Sean’s fingernails are non-existent by the time Antonio takes the chequered flag an hour and a half later, the cheer bubbling up inside him as he watches the bright yellow car sweep over the finish line. The team erupt into cheers around him as they make their way over to the holding area where Antonio parks the car in parc fermé, his hand landing on his helmet, smile bursting over his face. He hears Antonio’s laugh over the shouts of the crowd as he watches the Italian pull himself free, immediately launching himself at Antonio. His head knocks against the hard carbon fibre of Antonio’s helmet, the sweat sticking at his hands as they fold around Antonio, tears in the corners of his eyes, Antonio’s hand slapping against his back.   
  
“We won,” He whispers against Antonio, his tone breathless. “You did it,”   
  
“Hey, you did some too,” Antonio says, pressing his face against Sean’s. “I can’t believe it,”   
  


* * *

  
  
“Are you okay?” Sean says, watching Antonio as they walk back to the motorhome, their overalls still sticky from champagne.    
  
Antonio doesn’t answer immediately, staring into space and worrying his lip.    
  
“Tonio,” Sean says again, a little louder and Antonio seems to jolt out of his daydream, turning weary eyes to his best friend.    
  
“Sorry, I was a million miles away,” Antonio says softly. “What’s wrong?”   
  
“Maybe I should ask you that,” Sean replies, glancing worriedly at his friend. “You look like you’re gonna keel over,”   
  
“I’m fine, I’m just tired,” Antonio shakes his head, his face paling as he sways slightly, his forehead slick with sweat. “I just need to lay down-” He begins, the words falling away as he falls forward.    
  
“Tonio!” Sean shouts out, managing to catch the skinny Italian before he hits the floor, thanking his racing driver reflexes as he lifts Antonio into his arms.   
  
The Italian’s head flops against his chest, his eyes closed, his hair still mussed and sticky from the champagne. Sean glances down at his best friend with worry, hands tightening around him, over the sticky yellow overalls. He tries not to think about how light Antonio is, how easy he is to lift. He doesn’t know how he finds his way back to the motorhome, slumping down on the couch with Antonio still wrapped up in his arms. Sean brushes back the sweaty curls from Antonio’s forehead, looking down at his ashen face and cursing under his breath as the heat burns into his hand.    
  
“Tonio?” He says, gently shaking his best friend’s shoulder but there’s no response. Antonio remains silent and unresponsive, his head still pressed against Sean’s chest. “Tonio?” Sean tries again. “Tonio, please,”    
  
Antonio stirs at Sean’s worried voice, his eyes slowly opening as he glances around, confusion dancing over his features. “Sean, wha- what’s going on?”   
  
“You passed out,” Sean says quietly, snagging a bottle from the table from the side. He uncaps it slowly and Antonio tilts his head slightly to take a sip from it, leaning back against Sean’s chest weakly. “I was worried,”   
  
“No need, I guess I was just tired from the race,” Antonio says weakly.    
  
“People don’t just pass out from tiredness, have you been eating?” Sean replies.    
  
Antonio groans against his chest. “Sean, not this again-”   
  
“Tonio, you’re light as a feather, you pass out for no reason and you don’t want me to be worried?”   
  
“Sean,” Antonio whispers, his hand moving to land on Sean’s face. “I’m fine, honestly, you know me, fast metabolism,”   
  
“Not like this,” Sean says softly, his hand folding into Antonio’s, his eyes ghosting over his skinny body clothed in the bright yellow overalls. “You’re skinnier than you’ve ever been before-”   
  
“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Antonio’s thumb strokes over Sean’s face.    
  
Sean doesn’t believe him. He watches the Italian carefully, his green eyes falling beneath long dark eyelashes once more, his hand slackening against Sean’s as he drifts into sleep.    
  
“I swear to god, Giovinazzi, I’m taking your skinny ass to McDonalds tomorrow,” He says, shaking his head as he squeezes Antonio’s hand tightly.    
  


* * *

  
__  
_Three._  
  
  
It’s Mitch’s twenty second birthday and they end up in some dirty bar in the middle of London, the bass pumping heavily through their chests. The birthday boy has long such disappeared with Alex somewhere, presumably to snog him, to persuade the Brit to give him a birthday blowjob. Sean watches Antonio - in his tight white shirt that clings to all the right places - brush away the female and male attention that he gets with a small, awkward smile before he proceeds to down shot after shot, Mitch’s shouts of approval loud over the bass.    
  
Antonio wipes his mouth afterwards, looking pleased with himself, his eyes glassy as he shifts along the sofa to where Sean is talking to Pierre.    
  
“Sean,” Antonio says, as way of a greeting before he proceeds to climb into Sean’s lap, giggling as his long legs drape over the side of the couch, tangling with Sean’s, his arms brushing around his neck. “Sean, I missed you,”

Sean glances at his best friend, his green eyes glassy and unfocused, his skinny body still pressing against Sean’s side. “I missed you too, buddy,” He says with a smile.    
  
“No, you don’t understand,” Antonio says, glancing at Pierre, his arm still wrapped around Sean’s neck, his hand moving to gently pat Sean’s cheek. “This guy- this guy is everything, he’s like….an angel, an angel without wings,”   
  
Pierre grins widely, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol he’s drunk, too polite to say anything about his Italian teammate currently sitting in Sean’s lap.    
  
Sean smiles gently at Antonio. “And I don’t think you should have any more to drink Antonio Giovinazzi,”    
  
“And I don’t remember you being my dad, Sean- Sean, whatever your last name is,” Antonio says, his laughter tickling Sean’s collarbone.   
  
The night rolls on and Antonio stays in Sean’s lap, pressed against his lap, giggling to himself as Sean carefully sips at his drink. Antonio’s arm remain pressed around the taller teenager’s neck, one of his hands moves to curl around Sean’s, who lazily drags his thumb over Antonio’s slightly warm skin. The music continues to blare out as Antonio grows heavier against Sean’s chest, pressing his face against Sean’s shirt.    
  
“Tonio?” Sean asks, shaking the Italian slightly. Antonio whines against his neck before he giggles unto the material, his fingers stroking over Sean’s. “I want to go to bed,” He moans under his breath and Sean finds himself smiling at Antonio’s tone of voice.    
  
“Okay, time to get going then,” He declares.    
  


* * *

  
  
Sean ends up half carrying Antonio home, the tall Italian slumped against his shoulder giggling about something or another - Sean knows he’s speaking in Italian, he knows the basics but he’s sure that Antonio is giggling about something else entirely. He feels the smile ghost over his lips as he pulls Antonio through the cold streets of London, his soft curls resting against Sean’s shoulder.   
  
“What’s going on with you two?” Mitch asks, his speech slightly slurred, hanging half of Alex’s shoulder, a broad grin on his face. “Are you dating?”   
  
“No, no, we’re best friends,” Sean finds himself saying, looking down at Antonio. They’ve never been anything else.    
  
“Bit cosy for best friends,” Mitch teases, a smirk on his lips. “So you two have never…?”   
  
“No,” Sean shakes his head. “It’s strange, we just need each other, we just cuddle and hold hands and do everything a couple do, but it makes us happy without complicating things,”   
  
The answer seems to satisfy Mitch who leans against Alex’s shoulder, engaging him into a conversation about how he was “horny and wanted a fuck when he got home,” Sean finds himself giggling as they part opposite ways, Alex dragging Mitch towards his flat in Chelsea whilst Sean makes his way to the flat that he and Antonio share. Antonio leans against his shoulder, his hand still linked with Sean’s as they walk through the cold streets, Sean is practically carrying the Italian by the time they arrive back at the apartment. He kicks the door shut with his foot, manhandling Antonio into his bedroom.    
  
“Okay, Sleeping Beauty,” Sean chuckles, carefully lying Antonio on the bed.    
  
The Italian doesn’t stir as Sean pulls off his shoes, socks and his sweat-covered shirt, only whining slightly as Sean pulls back the covers and tucks Antonio within them. Sean looks down at his best friend resting against the pillows peacefully for a moment before he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and the packet of paracetamol from the cabinet, placing them on the side of the bedside table. Shedding his own clothes, he slips under the sheets of the bed, curling up next to Antonio. The tall Italian immediately shifts closer to him, his head curling into Sean’s bare chest. Sean smiles, his hand moving to gently hold Antonio around his waist, his other tangling into the messy brown curls of his best friend.    
  
“Love you, bello,” He whispers, his lips moving to brush against Antonio’s forehead.    
  
He doesn’t stir at the contact, still sleeping soundly against Sean’s chest. Sean smiles as sleep begins to itch at his eyelids as Antonio’s hand moves to grasp his own. Sleep claims him after that, Antonio sleeps on his arms, smiles on both of their faces. 


	3. Before (Artem/Mitch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artem has a rule never to fuck anyone before a race, but of course, rules were meant to broken weren't they?
> 
> Artem/Mitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, another fic from yours truly, I really am back on track with churning these fuckers out. This one is a bit filthy and I tried something else, tried to get a bit more detail and enrich it a bit more.  
> This was written for Emma's prompt (as is most of my writing!) "So is it okay if I ask for Mitch and Artem fucking 10 minutes before the race or is that off limits." 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Artem flicks through his data - worrying his lip, his earbuds firmly blocking out the sounds of the garages working on the cars around him. His head falls against the couch as he taps out a rhythm on his scratchy Nomex-covered knee, tries to focus on the race ahead of him, tries not to think about the warm, muggy heat. Abu Dhabi is nothing like Russia, he tells himself as he pulls on the collar of his overalls, pulling it away from the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck. He wants nothing more for this race to be over, to go back to Russia and take some time to relax. But at the same time, his chest aches because he knows it’s the last race, the last time that he will race with his teammate.    
  
He remembers after Mitch told him, told that he’d had another offer and he was moving away from Russian Time, away from Artem. It had hurt - hurt him more than the times he’d looked up Mitch’s instagram only to see Alex fucking Lynn or Tom Blomqvist flirting with him in the comments. It hurt to think that the other person in the car next to Artem’s would be a stranger, wouldn’t be the smiling Kiwi he’s found himself falling in love with. He’s tried to pretend it doesn’t hurt, that they will still be friends, that the night in Moscow didn’t mean anything.    
  
He pushes a hand through his hair and tries to push away the thoughts of his teammate, of his bright smile, only for Mitch to stalk into the room. The Kiwi’s overalls are tied around his waist, sweaty, bronzed biceps on show as he takes a pull from his bottle of water before he proceeds to dump the rest over his head. Artem tries not to look up, tries to ignore the sudden swell of his cock tightening against his overalls.    
  
“See something you like, Markelov?” Mitch teases, smile wide as Artem worries his lip at the water droplets dripping down from Mitch’s dark hair over his cheeks, over his plump lips, lips that Artem had kissed on the balcony when they were in Moscow together, when everything changed between them.    
  
“I-” Artem begins, his swollen cock pressing up against the scratchy Nomex of his overalls. “Mitch, I- we-”   
  
Mitch grins wider as he slips onto the couch next to Artem, his legs sprawling up against the Russian’s, taking up as much as the space as he can muster. Artem tries not to glance over the bronzed arms of his teammate, his knee pressing up against his own. Worrying his lip, he tries to move his leg away, feeling the water seep down into his fireproofs.    
  
“Mitch, you’re getting me wet,” He says, trying to pull away, the droplets sticking to his overalls.    
  
“Not the first time, champ,” Mitch mutters, his voice smoky and rounded, his honey brown eyes looked onto Artem. “So do you like what you see?” He asks again, his hand moving to land on Artem’s thigh.    
  
Artem looks down at Mitch’s hand rubbing over his scratchy overalls and bites his lip, trying to ignore his swollen cock brushing against his thigh. “Mitch, I don’t think it’s a good idea, we’ve got a race in thirty minutes-”   
  
“Good,” Mitch smirks. “I love a challenge,” He says, his hand moving to slide up Artem’s thigh, the smile widening as his eyes fall on Artem’s swollen cock, clearly evident through the tight navy overalls.    
  
“Mitch-” Artem whispers as Mitch cups him through the material.   
  
His hips subconsciously shifting up to meet Mitch’s fingers - the Kiwi has a smirk on his face as he teases Artem, his fingers so dangerously close to his swollen cock. Artem can feel the sticky pre-come leaking from his dick, smearing against the thin cotton of his boxers as Mitch’s hand works against him.   
  
“Fuck, Mitch, we shouldn’t-” Artem says, fighting the urge to arch his back, to curve into Mitch’s touch, the warmth spreading over him.    
  
Mitch’s dark eyes are fixed on him, a smirk still painted on his face as Artem’s head hits the back of the couch, a groan brushing past his lips. “Mitch-” He groans out, feeling the sweat cling to the nape of his neck, the familiar feeling of warmth building up in his lower belly as Mitch’s other hand carefully slides down the zip of Artem’s racing overalls. He hisses as the humid air hits his sweat-covered skin, as Mitch’s hands pull away the scratchy Nomex.    
  
“Oh god,” He finds himself lapsing into Russian, his eyes slide closed as Mitch leans forward, his lips brushing gently over Artem’s pale chest, kissing every inch of skin he exposes to the air.    
  
Artem hisses as he feels Mitch settle into his lap, Mitch’s arse dangerously close to his swollen cock, still rubbing against the cotton of his boxer shorts. Artem’s hands curl around Mitch’s small waist, hands rubbing over the scratchy material, over the soft skin that lies beneath. Artem bites back a groan as the kisses move to dance down over his collarbone, over his shoulder, the Kiwi’s tongue sucking over the tattoo on his bicep, his tongue tracing over the dark ink.    
  
“You’re so- fuck-” Artem mutters, trying to stick to English as Mitch’s mouth sucks on his tattoo, his tongue tracing over the outline, the smirk still clinging to the corner of his lips.   
  
Artem watches him closely, his hair falling out of the usual product, his ever present gold amulet shining against his bronzed chest. He smiles up at the Kiwi, his fingernails cutting into the bronze skin, leaving half moon crescents on Mitch’s hipbones. Mitch gasps at the feeling and bites down on Artem’s skin, the Russian jolting as teeth scrape over skin for a moment before the soothing sensation of Mitch’s warm tongue suck over the mark before he pulls away.   
  
Artem stares at the Kiwi, at the saliva sticking to his plush lips before he leans in and smashes their lips together. Mitch exhales for a moment as their lips mash against one another, Artem’s chapped ones rubbing against Mitch’s as his hands moves to fist into Mitch’s sweaty curls. Mitch opens his mouth, allowing Artem’s tongue to sweep in, his hand moving to fist into the front of Mitch’s fireproofs. He whines against the Russian’s lips as Artem’s fingers scramble to pull down the navy Russian Time overalls - he tries not to think about how it’s the last time the Kiwi will wear the navy - as he kisses the corner of Mitch’s mouth.    
  
“God, I need you, Tem,” Mitch whispers against his lips, his thighs rubbing against Artem’s swollen cock, the pre-come heavy and thick in his underwear as their lips collide together.    
  
Mitch’s hand tugs harder on the dark strands of hair, eliciting a groan from the Russian. Artem’s fingers find the edge of Mitch’s boxer shorts, stealing a gasp from Mitch’s lips as he slides the thin material away, exposing Mitch’s arse to the air. Mitch’s swollen dick rubs up against his belly, smearing sticky pre-come over his torso as they rock against one another, still connected by their lips.    
  
“Fuck,” Artem whispers, his hand sliding away from Mitch’s hip to grapple in the pocket of his overalls - he never usually keeps the stuff on him but Mitch is an interesting lover and often wants sex at the most opportune moment.    
  
He’s thankful for it now as his hands slide around the bottle, his lips still dancing over Mitch’s, tugging on the sweaty curls and drawing another moan from the Kiwi. Their tongues slide over each other and Artem takes in the taste of Mitch - a combination of sweat, motor oil and something sweet, almost like strawberries, he thinks as he licks the inside of Mitch’s mouth, committing the taste to memory. Mitch smirks into the kiss as he hears the snick of the bottle, hears the shuffle of Artem’s scratchy overalls as he moves them away. Their lips still work against each other desperately as Artem’s hand moves to slick up his swollen, hard cock, a small gasp brushing against the inside of Mitch’s mouth as his calloused fingers run over the sensitive area.    
  
“Fuck me, Tem,” Mitch whispers against his mouth as Artem’s hand move to lift Mitch’s hips upwards, their lips still connected to each other as the Russian slowly lowers Mitch down onto his swollen cock. He takes in the flash of pain that dances over Mitch’s face, his teeth caught between his lip as he stiffens at the intrusion, pulling away from the Russian. Artem keeps his hands on Mitch’s hip as the Kiwi’s back arches, the pain still evident on his face.   
  
“Shit, shit, are you okay-” Artem says as he pauses, his hands still wrapped tightly on Mitch’s hip, Mitch’s cock still pressed up against his stomach.    
  
“Move,” Mitch says thickly.    
  
Artem obeys his command, feeling Mitch’s hands dig into his back, knows that his skin will be marked as he thrusts up into Mitch, keeping his hands steady on the small Kiwi. The pain that is ghosting across Mitch’s face immediately disappears as his mouth falls open, as the pleasure begins to take over. Artem’s cock pushes up and down in a steady rhythm, his balls hitting Mitch’s bare skin, the warmth curving up inside his inner thighs. The crinkle of their overalls and their frantic panting breaths are the only sounds that fill the room as Mitch’s head falls against Artem’s chest, breath curling against the tattoo.    
  
“Oh god, Artem, you’re so-” Mitch mutters from between chapped lips, his breath ghosting over Artem’s sweaty skin, his swollen cock pushing against Artem’s abdomen as Artem rocks their bodies together. He thrusts up into Mitch - smiles at the warmth spreading over his lower body - Mitch’s neck arching out. Artem’s lips trace over the tiny freckle on Mitch’s collarbone as he thrusts up and down, his hands still wrapped on Mitch’s hips. Mitch pushes down onto Artem’s cock, his back still arched, his hand moving to trace over the tattoo on Artem’s arm. His amulet still glitters in the dim light of the garage.   
  
“You feel so good, Mitchy,” Artem whispers, the smile curving over his face as he thrusts up into Mitch - the Kiwi is tight around his cock, the sweat clings to their bodies, Mitch’s fingernails bruising his pale skin. Mitch’s cock still rests between them, wedged in between their sweaty stomachs, leaking pearlescent pre-come all over Artem. He winces at the stickiness as he moves slightly, angling his thrust only for Mitch to become boneless against him. His plush lips part as his eyes slide close, his back arching as Artem finally finds his prostate.    
  
“So beautiful like this,” Artem says against Mitch’s skin as he builds up his thrusts, his cock grazing over Mitch’s prostate almost in a lazy fashion - eliciting a series of groans and moans from the Kiwi, his fingernails digging into Artem’s back as the sweat pours down his face. They’ve done this so many times before - they’d done it against the balcony in Moscow, in the middle of the night - Artem remembers Mitch’s legs curling around him as he’d fucked him up against the wall.   
Artem finds himself watching Mitch’s face carefully as he thrusts in and out, watches the slight hints of pain, watches the pleasure sink over the handsome features before Mitch leans into Artem with a grunt. Artem feels the come splatter against his stomach as Mitch sinks against him, ecstasy spreading over his body, leaving him boneless. His softening cock presses against Artem’s muscles as he continues to thrust, his rhythm becoming faster as he feels himself near orgasm.    
  
“Fuck,” He mutters in Russian, the heat igniting deeper within him as he continues thrusting, only to shudder. He gives into the pleasure, feels his eyes slide shut as he comes into Mitch - hot and wet and tight, he thinks - as he slumps against Mitch, smiling as the Kiwi gently plays with his mussed, sweaty hair. He leans into Mitch’s touch, the orgasm still sinking over him, giving the Kiwi a small smile. He doesn’t want to pull out of Mitch, settling for staying inside the Kiwi, wanting to maintain the closeness, not caring that his softening cock is inside his soon to be ex-teammate.   
  
“That was incredible,” He mutters as Mitch grins, his thumb dancing over Artem’s cheek.    
  
“Well, you are a sex god, after all,” Mitch replies, brushing back Artem’s hair before his lips gently press against the Russian’s sweaty cheek. “I don’t know how I’m going to get into my car,” He says with a smirk, his eyes dancing over Artem’s pale cheek.    
  
“I don’t know how I’m going to get your come off my stomach before the race,” Artem says, his hand curling around Mitch’s waist.    
  
“Or off your overalls,” Mitch cuts in, his brown eyes landing on the mess on the front of Artem’s Russian Time overalls, laughing at the soft Russian curse that bites through the air. 


	4. Revision (Pierre/Alex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre wants to revise, but Alex has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Emma's prompt; "Alex snogging Pierre instead of revising,". Set when they're in school, about Year 10, making them about fifteen. Just fair warning that most of you have probably read this fic, I'm just posting it to A03 so they all stay in the same place! :)
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Pierre knew studying with Alex wasn’t a good idea - Alex who suddenly came back from his holiday in Ibiza with bronzed skin and a sudden six-pack that wasn’t there before - he’s nursed a crush on his best friend for as long as he can remember. But Alex had smiled at him, leaned against his locker, wearing that ridiculous chunky beige cardigan that Pierre loves so much.   
  
“C’mon, pear, please let me come over,” He says, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I need your help on my biology stuff, we have that test and Mr Alonso will kick my ass if I don’t pass,”   
  
“You always pass,” Pierre says, pushing his glasses back up onto his nose. “Or you would if you studied,”  
  
“I did study,” Alex says, holding his hands up with a mock expression of surprise on his face.   
  
Pierre raises an eyebrow. “Really? Who was it this time? Richie? Tom? Antonio?”  
  
“I studied…umm, Mitch,” Alex says with a small smirk on his face. “Look, please, I’ll never ask you for anything ever again,”

Pierre sighs heavily, adjusting his textbooks in his hand, feeling the fight leave him. He can never say no to those brown eyes. “Okay, fine, let me check it’s okay with my dad,”  
  
“You’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for,” Alex says, grinning widely. “You’re a lifesaver, pear,”   
  
“Lynn!” A familiar voice calls out over the din in the corridor. Pierre stiffens as he watches Tom B, one of the most popular guys in school, barrels into Alex, grinning widely. “Hey babe,” He purrs out, his hand moving to trace over Alex’s chest. “You didn’t come and meet me after French,”  
  
“Sorry, love,” Alex says, pasting on his best smile. “Got sidetracked,”   
  
Pierre resists the urge to roll his eyes as he watches the pair of them, watches Tom lean into Alex’s space, his hands dancing over the Brit’s arm. Alex leans down and presses his lips against Tom’s who accepts the kiss, his hand curving to fist into Alex’s messy dark hair. Pierre wrinkles his nose as their lips fold against each other, unaware of everything around them, Alex pulling on Tom’s tie. He walks away from the pair, ignoring the sinking feeling in his heart at the sight of Alex kissing someone else.  
  


* * *

  
  
Pierre is deep in his own thoughts as he walks out of the school gates, ignoring the chatter of students around him. He thinks about Alex kissing Tom B, about how many boyfriends Alex has had since Year 9 when he first lost his virginity to Mitch Evans in a tent when they went camping. He remembers Alex telling him about the experience, about the sloppy kisses they shared afterwards and he remembers the sensation in his chest, the dull ache as Alex told him how good it felt, how special Mitch made him feel.   
  
“Pierre!” A familiar voice calls out his name. “Pierre!”  
  
He turns around only to find Alex sitting in his brand new Aston Martin, roof down, obnoxious dance song blaring out of the speakers. He’s already taken off his blazer, he barely ever wears it anyway, his white shirt stretching across his abs, his eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses. “Did you forget about me?” He says, smiling widely.   
  
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Pierre says, worrying his lip. “I completely forgot,”  
  
“It’s okay,” Alex replies. “Get in,”  
  
“Is that what you tell all the pretty boys?” The words leave Pierre’s mouth before he can stop them. Alex raises an eyebrow but says nothing else as Pierre opens the door and slides onto the leather seat. “Is this new?”  
  
“I crashed my Porsche a few weeks ago,” Alex says as he pulls up the handbrake.   
  
“What? Were you alright?” Pierre asks, face paling.   
  
“Yeah, yeah, the car was wrecked though. That’s the last time that I let Carlos give me a blowjob whilst I’m driving-”  
  
Pierre feels his cheeks turn beetroot red. Alex doesn’t seem to notice as he continues to drive up the road, the wind ruffling his messy dark hair, aviators still on.   
  


* * *

  
  
“So what was it you were struggling on?” Pierre asks as he leads Alex up to his bedroom, watching the tall Brit sink down onto his bed. “We can start there,” He says, sinking onto the bed next to his best friend.  
  
“The part about sexual reproduction,” Alex says, his eyes locking on Pierre as he pulls his textbook out of his bag, his shirt straining against his abs as he leans over. “I was struggling with a few of the terms,”  
  
Pierre feels his cheeks colour bright red at Alex’s words. “Wha-what?” He chokes out. “I thought, I thought you’d be well rehearsed on that matter-”  
  
“I was confused over some of the terms for sperm production,” Alex says, opening up his textbook. Pierre feels his cheeks flush as he watches Alex’s eyes scan over the page, resting on the photograph of the penis. Alex looks up at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”  
  
“You can’t be serious,” Pierre bites out after a moment, blush still clinging to his face. “I mean, you all of all people are asking me for help about that-”  
  
Alex raises an eyebrow, noting Pierre’s blush for the first time. “Your face has gone bright red, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong,” Pierre says, trying not to look into his best friend’s eyes, not looking at the shirt buttons straining against his muscular chest.   
  
“Pear,” Alex’s voice turns soft. “What’s wrong? Are you embarrassed?”  
  
Pierre bristles at Alex’s tone. “I’m not embarrassed, why would you say that?”  
  
“Because you’re still a virgin, pear,” Alex says, laughing slightly.   
  
“You don’t know that for sure,” Pierre mumbles, looking down at the rumpled sheets.   
  
“Pierre,” Alex says softly. Pierre finds himself glancing up into the chocolate brown eyes of his best friend. “It’s okay to be a virgin,” He says, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s okay to wait for the special person in your life, I wish I’d waited,”  
  
Pierre looks away, focuses on the photo of himself and Alex on his dresser. “I’m the only guy in school who hasn’t had sex with someone,”  
  
“Is there someone you want to you know? Have sex with?” Alex presses, his eyes still on his best friend.   
  
Pierre fiddles with his bedcover, worrying his lip. “I don’t think he wants to have sex with me-”  
  
“How could anyone not want to fuck you?” Alex blurts out, his eyes widening as the words slip out of his mouth. “Sorry, I just-”  
  
“I’m not handsome, I’m not sporty, I’m not perfect, I just-” Pierre picks at a loose thread. “I haven’t even had my first kiss,”  
  
“What?” Alex whispers, dumbfounded.   
  
“It’s not that big a deal,” Pierre says, blush flooding his cheeks. “I can cope with that-” He begins but the words die in his throat as Alex leans in closer, his eyes falling on Pierre’s lips. “Alex, what are you-”   
  
Alex’s hand moves to gently cup his face, his brown eyes locking on Pierre’s blue ones. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes searching Pierre’s for any hesitation before he closes the gap, his lips folding over Pierre’s. Pierre gasps at the sensation as Alex’s slightly chapped lips glide over his own - they’re soft and warm, Alex’s cologne tickling at his nostrils as their lips move against each other. His eyes slide closed as he kisses Alex back, Alex’s stubble scratching at his face, his hand moving from his cheek to dance over his neck, down over the scratchy material of Pierre’s school blazer. Pierre doesn’t think about anything but Alex, ignores the fact that his dad is downstairs making lasagne, ignores the chemistry test he really needs to study for as Alex’s plush lips ghost over his own, his tongue teasing over Pierre’s bottom lip. Pierre gasps at the sensation, Alex’s hands ghosting around his body pulling him closer.   
  
“Pear,” Alex breathes against his lips as his tongue lazily traces over Pierre’s lip. Pierre wonders how many boys Alex has kissed, how many boys’s lips his tongue has traced over and stiffens.   
  
“Pierre?” Alex says softly, looking down at the smaller teenager with concern. His lips are swollen and red from their kisses. “Are you okay?”  
  
“What if I’m not good at this, what if I’m not as good as Mitch or-” Pierre begins, only to stop as Alex carefully brushes back his hair from his forehead, his eyes locked on the younger teen.   
  
“You don’t need to be anyone but yourself,” Alex says softly, his finger stroking over Pierre’s forehead. “You’re better than all of them,”  
  
“That’s not true,” Pierre says, looking away from his best friend. However, Alex’s hand stays on his cheek. He leans in, brown eyes searching once more before he tentatively leans in and presses his lips against Pierre’s once more.   
  
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since year eight-” Alex whispers between breathly kisses. “There was something about you, something I always loved-” He says before he captures Pierre’s lips again, his hand curving around Pierre’s neck, fingers ghosting over the tiny dark curls at the nape of his neck. Pierre whines against Alex’s lips, kissing him back, not caring if he’s sloppy or messy. Alex responds to every kiss, his thumb stroking over the nape of Pierre’s neck. Pierre feels the warmth curve over his thighs, over his entire body as he melts against Alex’s body, his hands moving to grip at Alex’s shoulders, at the thin material bunched around his shoulders. He bites down on Alex’s lip and the Brit pulls away, gasping, a small smile curving on his lips.   
  
“Guess you’re a natural at this, Gasly,” He says, smirk decorating his mouth. However, it’s soon wiped away as Pierre pulls him back down by his tie, their lips meeting again, the biology textbook forgotten on the covers as Alex slides off Pierre’s blazer, their lips still connected.


	5. When in Germany (Mitch/Pierre) (Mitch/Alex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex had a bad day. A certain two people make it worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off the Germany feature race when we had angry posh bastard Alex Lynn on the radio. For Emma who wanted Ace catching Mitch and Pierre snogging. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

Alex pulls off his helmet and shoves his steering wheel back onto his car with more force than necessary. He knows that he shouldn’t have snapped back at his race engineer when they told him his position but the damage is already done. He catches sight of a familiar pair of canary yellow overalls down ahead. Mitch. His chest wrenches at the sight - he watches as Mitch makes his way over to Pierre, still unclipping his HANS device away from his helmet. Alex watches the Frenchman - his best friend - light up at the sight of the Kiwi, accepting the brief pat to his shoulder. Alex watches them carefully, watches how Mitch’s fingers linger on his shoulder for longer than is necessary.  
  
He thinks back to just before the race - he’d ended up wandering over to Pierre’s garage to check in on his best friend, maybe spy a glance at his set-up, tease him over the race photoshoot he’d had to undertake. However, when he reaches the Prema garage, it’s empty - Pierre’s Red Bull branded  Prema sits in the middle of the garage, waiting to be slid onto the track. His white helmet resting on the nose of the car, waiting to be put on, his black gloves sitting by the side.  
Alex glances around, brow furrowed, it’s unusual for Pierre not to be getting ready for the race with only a few minutes until they begin racing. It’s only then that he hears it - a low moan from behind the tyres.

He’s about to call out Pierre’s name when he hears a familiar voice moan out.  
  
“Oh god, P,” The Kiwi accent, the one that Alex knows well, rolls through the air. Alex catches sight of the pair, of Pierre pressing Mitch up against the tyre wall, their lips smashing together. Alex knows he shouldn’t be here, not when Pierre’s knee is sliding between Mitch’s thighs, the Kiwi’s head is thrown back, the thick line of his bronzed neck is exposed. Pierre’s lips brush over Mitch’s, his hands forcing the Kiwi’s wrists against the rubber of the wall.  
  
“Mitchy,” Pierre whispers against his lips, his tongue brushing over the crease of the Kiwi’s lips. “Mitchy, please,” He says as his lips dance over the tanned skin, marking every inch of the Kiwi he’s pressing against the wall.  
  
Mitch smiles at the sensation as Pierre’s hand moves to ghost through his hair, his fingers moving through the soft, black strands, eliciting a moan from Mitch as it’s tugged. Pierre’s swollen cock brushes against Mitch’s bright yellow overalls as Mitch throws his head back, Pierre’s name tearing from his lips.  
  
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Mitch says, quietly. “What if someone sees?”  
  
“Let them,” Pierre says, smiling against Mitch’s lips. Alex watches as he slips his hand into Mitch’s slightly open overalls, brushing the fireproofs. He feels the blush burn over his cheeks as he watches Pierre’s hand disappear, Mitch gasps out against him, Pierre smirks at the sound, his hands shuffling over the scratchy Nomex.  
  
“You’re so fucking sexy like this, Mitchy,” Pierre says, pumping Mitch’s cock as his lips dance over the sweaty, bronzed skin. “So fucking sexy,”  
  
“Pierre-” Mitch breathes out, his lips swollen from the kisses. Alex finds himself backing away as Pierre’s hand rubs Mitch’s cock, Mitch’s moans getting more heated, his hair mussed as he dips his head to rest against Pierre’s shoulder. Alex finds himself standing back at the DAMS garage, slightly numbed, his thoughts still full of Pierre and Mitch pressed against each other, he wonders if they’ve ever fucked, if they’ve ever gone further than a fumbled handjob. He pulls on his helmet with shaking fingers, trying not to think about Pierre pressing himself against Mitch, ignoring the swell in his racing overalls. He has to focus on the race, has to focus on getting the best result.  
  
His engineers feed him the same excuses, that they’re sorry, that they feel he could have squeezed more out of the car. He stands by the pitwall, his hands pushing through his sweaty, dark hair, gritting his teeth. “Save it,” He snarls before he stalks away, still holding onto his helmet. He finds himself following Mitch to the weighing area - watches the small Kiwi take off his helmet, pressing a hand through his mussed curls.  
  
“Ace-” He says, a small smile ghosting over his face as he spots Alex.  
  
“May I have a word?” The words leave Alex’s lips before he can stop them and Mitch nods once, confusion spreading over his face as they move away to a secluded corner, away from prying eyes and ears.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Mitch begins but he doesn’t get to finish as Alex slams him against the wall, furiously shoving their lips together. Mitch groans in confusion against Alex’s mouth as the Brit’s tongue pushes past the crease of his lips, his teeth clacking against the Kiwi’s, his body pressing against Mitch. Mitch struggles against Alex, Alex’s swollen cock brushing against his thigh as they kiss, their tongues tangle together.  
  
“Alex-” Mitch says, ripping his mouth away, his lips red and swollen. “Alex, what-” The words fall away as Alex’s mouth snags on Mitch’s neck as he’d seen Pierre do a few hours previously, his tongue moves over the same spot he knows Pierre’s lips touched, biting down on the smooth bronzed skin. Mitch jolts against him for a moment before another moan brushes past his lips.  
  
“Lex, please-” He moans out, Alex smirking as his lips suck a bruise into Mitch’s neck, he’s so easy to please, he thinks, feeling Mitch’s swelling dick pressing against him.  
  
“I saw you,” Alex says, pulling his lips away, his eyes dark.  
  
“What-” Mitch begins, his eyes dilated with desire as he looks up at Alex. “Alex, what-”  
  
“I saw you and Pierre before the race,” Alex hisses against Mitch’s ear as his hand moves down to ghost against the thin material enclosing Mitch’s cock. “You let him touch you,”  
  
“You said no sex before a race-” Mitch says, his eyes dark, smirk dancing over his lips. “I needed someone,”  
  
Alex’s eyes narrow, his lips sucking another bruise into the bronzed skin, his hands kneading over the Kiwi’s cock. Mitch continues, smiling, gasping into the air. “Were you jealous? Were you jealous of his lips on mine? Is that why you were so angry after the race?”  
  
“You heard me,” Alex says, his brown eyes gazing into Mitch’s own honey brown ones.  
  
“Of course I did. Pierre did too, that’s why he asked if we could come to some sort of _arrangement_ ,” Mitch says, smile flickering over his swollen lips.  
  
“What kind of arrangement?” Alex asks, eyes still locked on the Kiwi.  
  
“You come up to my room, fuck me but Pierre wants to watch,” Mitch says, gasping out as Alex’s tongue ghosts over the bruise he just made. “What do you think?”  
  
“I could use the distraction,” Alex says, smirking against Mitch’s neck.


	6. Pulled Muscle (Sean/Mitch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitch hurts after the gym, Sean makes it better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off the snapchat where Sean filmed Mitch limping down the street. Posted originally on Tumblr.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Sean finds himself smiling as he whips out his phone after their intense gym session. Mitch limps behind him, wearing an obnoxious bright orange t-shirt that he’s sure belongs to either Alex or Richie shuffling along the busy London street behind him. They’ve been inseparable for the past two weeks, constantly in each other’s snapchats and instagrams. Sean doesn’t remember when the thing between them began to change - when he began looking at Mitch as more than just a friend, when Mitch got drunk a few weeks ago and climbed into his lap, his eyes shining with desire as he pressed their lips together.

They spent the entire Silverstone weekend together, ended up watching the game with Stoffel, Mitch spread out in the armchair opposite. Sean had tried not to keep his gaze on Mitch’s arms, on the tantalising sliver of golden skin poking out from beneath his white t-shirt. He knows that he should have said no to going to the gym with Mitch. He usually goes with Richie but he was in Zurich, leaving Sean to go and work out with Mitch. Mitch, who it seems, goes to the gym in very little clothing - Sean is glad when they decide to head off home, he’s certain that he can’t cope watching Mitch lift weights in the tightest white vest and the smallest pair of shorts he’s ever seen.  
  
Sean opens up snapchat and begins recording with a smile on his face. “So Hollywood,” He announces to the camera as they walk along the street. He feels the smirk grow wider as he watches Mitch shuffle along behind him, the smile gritted as he limps along.  
  
“If anyone wants a new actor,” Sean says, focusing on the camera on the limping Kiwi behind him.  
  
“Got me,” Mitch cuts in, holding his hand up, smiling wide for the camera as the video stops recording. He watches the video disappear onto the story section of Sean’s instagram. “Did you just fucking send that to everyone on instagram?”

“Of course I did,” Sean says, putting his phone away as he watches Mitch still limping down the street, hunched over slightly. “You didn’t even do that much work?”  
  
“Shut up,” Mitch whines, wincing as he continues to pound the hard London pavement. “I was trying to build some muscles up, make Tonio swoon,”  
  
“That’s not difficult to do,” Sean says, laughing. He slows down a little, as the pair of them walk side by side towards the tube station. His hand brushes against Mitch’s for a moment, his skin is warm and soft against Sean’s and he wants nothing more than to grab hold of the Kiwi’s hand.  
  


* * *

  
  
However, as soon as they reach their apartment, Mitch disappears into the bathroom, still limping and cursing under his breath before the shower starts up. Sean busies himself kicking off his trainers and firing up Netflix. He’s fifteen minutes into Orange is the New Black before Mitch finally appears clad in a pair of soft looking grey shorts and wet hair, flattened to his forehead. He slumps on the couch with a huff, wincing.  
  
“Still aching?” Sean jokes, his eyes sliding away from the screen.  
  
Mitch grimaces, barely an upturn of his lips, as he shuffles around on the couch trying to get comfortable. “My calves are killing me,”  
  
“Are you okay?” Sean asks softly as he watches Mitch wince as he shifts his leg over onto Sean’s lap. He tries to ignore the curl of warmth that presses through his lower belly as Mitch flexes his foot, looking slightly disinterested as he focuses on the screen.  
  
Sean finally swallows his pride and gently takes Mitch’s foot into his hand and begins rubbing over the callouses with his fingers, he rubs tiny circles over the rough skin as Mitch lets out a low whine under his breath as his head falls back against the couch, his hair tickling against Sean’s bare arm. “Fuck, that feels good,” He whispers, his eyes closing as Sean’s hands work over his foot, slowly moving over the tanned skin up to the knot of muscles in his calf. Mitch hisses, stiffening as Sean kneads the muscle with his fingers trying to loosen it up slightly.  
  
“I think you overdid it, mate,” Sean says, trying to keep his voice light as his hands skim over the muscles, loosening them up. Mitch hisses under his breath again, his head falling further against Sean, pain enveloping his features.  
  
“It’s nothing, just a thigh sprain I think,” Mitch says, trying to crack a smile.  
  
“You pushed yourself too hard,” Sean says, his fingers digging into Mitch’s thigh, sliding over the tanned, smooth skin of the Kiwi.  
  
“I’m fine, honestly,” Mitch says, wincing as Sean kneads his fingers into a particularly stubborn knot of muscle. “Fuck-”  
  
Sean glances at Mitch, worry tinging his features as he continues to work on Mitch’s calves. “I should get you a heat pack,” He says. However, as he moves to stand up, Mitch shakes his head and pushes Sean back into the couch. “I’ll be fine, G, I promise,”  
  
“A heatpack will make you feel better,” Sean argues.  
  
“But I’m comfortable and your fingers are working wonders,” Mitch replies, a small smile gracing his face. He leans his head back against Sean, his damp hair tickling his skin as a small groan rolls from his lips. “That feels so good,”  
  
Sean worries his lip, his fingers still mapping over Mitch’s skin. He knows he shouldn’t feel the tingling sensation at the sight of his friend stretched out in his sweatpants, his tanned skin all on show, head pillowed against the couch. “You okay?” Mitch asks, breaking Sean out of his thoughts.  
  
Sean hums in approval as Mitch leans against him, glancing up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “You have magic hands, G,” Mitch whispers, his voice barely audible, his lips slightly parted. He licks them once, looking up at Sean, honey brown eyes meeting equally dark ones.  
  
“Mitch-” Sean begins but he’s silenced by Mitch’s lips pressing against his own. Sean feels the groan tears itself from his lips as Mitch’s soft, plush ones move against his own, his tongue flicking out to trace over the crease. Mitch whines against the kiss, Sean’s hand still rubbing circles on his thigh. Sean’s other hand moves to cup Mitch’s cheek, ghosting over his still damp hair, tugging the Kiwi closer. Mitch smiles at the action, his teeth moving to worry at Sean’s bottom lip, Sean’s fingers tracing over his skin.  
  
“Sean,” Mitch says, breathlessly against his lips as Sean deepens the kiss, his tongue moving to slide into Mitch’s mouth. Mitch groans at the sensation and the taste of salt and energy drink lingers on Sean’s tongue as they kiss, rocking against each other. Sean smiles into the kiss as he slides his hand underneath the hem of the shorts, his eyes flicker down to the bulge standing out against the thin grey material.  
  
“Think I can make those pains go away?” He asks softly, his eyes locked on Mitch’s. His hand dips lower, teasing, stroking over the soft skin, over the downy hairs -    
  
“Any bloody time,” Mitch replies, wrapping his legs around Sean’s waist as the taller man lifts him from the couch, their lips still connecting together as Sean stumbles into the bedroom.


	7. Tiny (Mitch/Alex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It started off as a dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted originally to Tumblr for the prompt - "You are so much tinier than me," and who better to write about than everyone's favourite smol Kiwi? As always, for Emma.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

It started off as a dare. A clearly intoxicated Richie had smirked at Alex from across the table. It makes Alex ever regret choosing to play in the first place.  
  
“I dare you to snog Lynn.” Richie tells Mitch, grinning widely as cheers erupt around them.  
  
“But I-” Alex begins, his cheeks turning pink as he tries not to catch Mitch’s eye across the table. Richie is all too aware of his crush on the Kiwi, his lips curving into a smile as he continues. “C’mon Lynn, don’t be shy, haven’t you kissed already?” He laughs. “Oh, and it has to be a proper snog, Evans, none of this lips touching for one second bullshit,”  
  
Alex worries his lip as Richie’s laughter fills the room. He feels the panic tug inside his chest as Mitch approaches him, a soft smile on his lips. The whole room goes quiet as Mitch leans down and brushes their lips together for a moment, their lips gliding over each other. Alex feels the warmth curl inside his chest at the sensation of Mitch’s chapped, warm lips against his own. He finds himself groaning slightly against Mitch’s lips, his cock swelling against the thin denim of his jeans before Mitch pulls away, smile clinging to his lips.  
  
“That wasn’t a kiss!” Richie states immediately. “C’mon, Evans. Give us your best porn impression,”  
  
Mitch glances at Alex for a moment before he licks his lips, settling into Alex’s lap. Alex finds his hands settling around Mitch’s waist to steady him, surprised at how light the Kiwi is. Mitch smiles softly as he leans in, his hands moving to gently cup Alex’s face as their lips connect together. Alex finds his hands tightening around Mitch’s waist, trying to ignore how skinny and small the teenager is as Mitch’s hands dance over his skin, his lips slowly moving over Alex’s own. Alex moans into the kiss, allowing Mitch to bite down on the Brit’s lip, taking it between his teeth. Alex’s hand fists into the back of Mitch’s t-shirt.  
  
“Oh god, Mitch,” He whispers against the Kiwi’s lips. Mitch smiles against the kiss, his tongue moving to brush past Alex’s lips. Mitch’s tongue is soft and warm in Alex’s mouth, his hand moving to fist into the sweaty curls at the nape of Alex’s neck, tugging the Brit closer. Mitch tastes of alcohol, it’s bitter against Alex’s tongue he thinks as his fingers stroke over Mitch’s hips, his cock swelling against his jeans.  
  
“Okay, okay, lovebirds,” Richie cuts in and Mitch pulls his lips away slowly, glancing up at Alex through his heavy lidded eyes, saliva is still clinging to his lips, Alex’s hands still clasp him around his waist. “Okay, next person,” Richie says, eyes still wide. Mitch goes to climb out of Alex’s lap but the Brit’s hands remain on his waist, holding him in place.  
  
“Don’t-” Alex whispers.  
  
Mitch nods once and leans back into Alex’s chest, Alex’s arm moving to press against him, tangling their hands together lazily. Alex looks down at Mitch curled up in his lap, his head resting against his shoulder. Mitch’s hand feels tiny against his own, his long fingers curving over Mitch’s thumb and stroking the tanned skin gently. He feels Mitch slump against him even more, his breaths evening out, dancing against Alex’s collarbone and knows that Mitch has passed out against him.  
  
“Awww, look at you two,” Stoffel simpers teasingly as Pierre hits him on the shoulder, eyes narrowed. “What was that for?”  
  
“Leave them alone,” Pierre says. “You like your cuddles too when we’re alone together,” He says, smiling as Stoffel’s cheeks turn pink. “You should take him to bed,” He says to Alex. “He’s out for the count,”  
  
Alex smiles and looks down at Mitch still curled against him, his chest gently rising and falling. “Guess you’re right, I’ll take him to his bed,”  
  
“Or your bed, Lynn,” Richie teases, grinning.  
  
Alex surveys him with a look as his arms curve around Mitch’s waist, pulling the Kiwi onto his shoulder. He stands up, bidding goodnight to their friends, Mitch’s breath ghosting over his shoulder as he carries the Kiwi up the stairs, marvelling at how small he is in comparison. He finds himself tucking Mitch into his bed, smiling as the Kiwi snuggles down into the fluffy pillow with a soft smile on his face. Alex finds himself sliding into the bed next to his best friend, smiling as he moves closer to Mitch, his chest brushing against Mitch’s back. Mitch relaxes as Alex’s arms slide around his waist, pulling him closer.  
  
Alex feels the smile tug at his lips as Mitch sleeps on, tucked up in the safety of his arms. Mitch is so small pressed up against his body. Their legs are tangled together, Mitch’s foot pressing over Alex’s ankle. Alex presses a small kiss to Mitch’s ear, grinning as the Kiwi snuggles up closer to him, moving towards the source of warmth. Alex dips his head down, taking in the scent of Mitch’s hair as the Kiwi curls against his chest, warm and safe in Alex’s embrace. He feels his eyes closing, his head slumping against the top of Mitch’s head.  
  
“God, they’re so cute,” A voice says from the doorway, smiling at the sleeping pair, at Alex curled up around Mitch protectively. “Wonder if they realise that they-” Pierre says, pulling his phone out to take a photograph but Stoffel grabs the gadget from his hand. Pierre looks at his boyfriend with a questioning eyebrow. “I want to take a photo of them, Mitch is so tiny compared to-”  
  
“We’re not taking photos of them,” Stoffel says softly, tucking the camera away. “Fancy a cuddle of your own?” He asks, his hand folding into Pierre’s. Pierre grins widely as he follows his boyfriend out of the room closing the door gently behind them. 


	8. Dirty Little Secret (Mitch/Alex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitch doesn't want to be Alex's dirty little secret anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a sad one. Inspired by the All American Rejects song 'Dirty Little Secret' from which the title is stolen. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

_‘’ll keep you my dirty little secret, don’t tell anyone, or you’ll be just another regret._   
  


* * *

  
“Don’t tell anyone,” Alex had said as his hand had folded around Mitch’s, tugging him away from the paddock, away from the prying eyes of everyone else hovering around.   
  
Mitch had said nothing as he had allowed Alex to pull him away from the bustle of the paddock, the Brit’s hand was warm against his own. Alex’s lips fold against his own as the Brit presses him against the wall, his hand curling around Mitch’s wrist. Mitch moans against Alex’s lips as he feels the Brit’s body push up against him, feels the muscles tense underneath him. His hand moves to curve over the smooth jawline of the Brit, his fingers curling into the soft, dark hair at the nape of his neck. Alex moans against his lips as Mitch bites down on his lips, eliciting a low moan from his lips.   
  
“Mitchell-” Alex whispers, his lips sticking at Mitch’s as he glances at the Kiwi, light brown eyes locking with darker ones, Mitch’s hand still tugging on the dark strands.   
  
Their lips move over each other in unison, Mitch worrying Alex’s lips between his teeth. Alex groans louder, the pair still hidden behind the tyre wall as they have so many times before. Mitch takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into Alex’s mouth, his mouth filling with the taste of salt and the trace of energy drink still clinging to Alex’s tongue. Mitch deepens the kiss, their mouths moving over each other as Alex presses Mitch against the tyre wall, the smell of oil curling in their nostrils. Mitch smiles into the kiss, his stubble rubbing against Alex’s jaw, one hand still curled in his hair. His other hand moves down over Alex’s body, cupping him gently through the scratchy Nomex overalls. However, Alex stiffens and rips his lips away.   
  
“Not here,” He says briskly. “We can’t do it here,”

“Alex-” Mitch says, moving in, smile curving over his lips again. “Don’t you want to live a little-”  
  
“We’re not shagging here, Mitchell,” Alex says, pushing Mitch away. “I don’t want somebody seeing us together and-”  
  
“Why?” Mitch asks, hurt spreading across his face. “Are you ashamed of us?”  
  
Alex doesn’t say anything. His face remains hardened as his hand curves around Mitch’s and he tugs the Kiwi away from the tyre wall. “Come on, Mitch,”  
  
Mitch shakes his head, pulling his hand away, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. “Are you ashamed of me? Of what I am?”   
  
Alex remains silent as Mitch pushes past him, tears falling down his cheeks.   
  


* * *

  
  
However, Mitch finds himself back in Alex’s bed later that night. He ignores the words his head is screaming at him as Alex presses him against the sheets - his brown eyes dark with desire as he kisses down over Mitch’s cheekbones, his tongue dancing over the tanned skin.   
  
“I missed you,” Alex whispers, his eyes roving over Mitch hungrily.   
  
Mitch smiles as he looks up at the older boy, his hand curling around Mitch’s wrist, pressing it into the sheets as he kisses along Mitch’s stubble.   
  
“I missed you so much,” He repeats again, his naked body rubbing against Mitch’s, his swollen cock brushing against his thigh.   
  
Mitch feels the warmth swirl around inside his lower thigh. Alex growls out against his ear, breath ghosting over his cheek. They seem to kiss forever, their lips locked in an embrace, their bodies tangled together.   
  
Mitch gasps out as Alex pushes himself inside, wraps his legs around Alex’s waist as Alex thrusts in and out of him, gasping at the sensation, at how tight Mitch is against him. Mitch’s head hits the pillow, his hair mussing with sweat as he looks up at Alex through half-lidded eyes, his lips swollen from kisses. Alex thrusts into Mitch over and over, his strokes becoming frenzied, Mitch’s fingernails clawing into his back as he scrambles to try and hold onto the older man’s back. Alex groans out as he thrusts harder, up inside Mitch, the fingernails cutting into his pale skin. Mitch surges upwards, nips his lips at Alex’s as the older man pushes inside him.   
  
“Oh god, Alex,” Mitch groans out against his lips, warmth spreading over his lower abdomen as he builds towards orgasm, his own swollen cock leaks out pre-come between the pair, the sticky substance brushing against Alex’s belly as Mitch curves his leg slightly and Alex thrusts up, angling himself slightly.   
  
“Fuck,” Mitch gasps out, his head falling back against the pillow as the fuzzy sensation envelopes him, his cock rock-solid between the pair. “Alex, I’m going to-” He begins, his mouth falling open as Alex brushes against his prostate and he sees stars flash before his vision, the fuzzy, numbed feeling washes over him as he comes hard against Alex’s stomach. Alex brushes a kiss against his lips as his hips snap up and he stiffens against Mitch, his orgasm riding over him. Alex collapses against his chest, panting in the thick evening air. Mitch smiles as Alex lays against him for a moment, their bodies pressing against each other.   
  
His lips move from Alex’s lips to gently ghost over his skin, pressing harder over his collarbone. Alex hisses against him as he sucks his mark into the pale skin, biting down, marking every inch that he can. However, Alex stiffens against him, his eyes darkening as he pulls away from the Kiwi.   
  
“You gave me a lovebite,” He says as he stands up, examining the mark on his collarbone as Mitch takes in the sight of his naked ass from the bed.   
  
“Of course I did,” Mitch says, giving the Brit a fond smile.   
  
“I told you not to mark me,” Alex says, glaring at the Kiwi still lying on the bed. “I told you that nobody could know about this,” He snaps as he grabs his t-shirt from the floor and slides it on, hiding the mark from view.   
  
“Alex-” Mitch begins, pulling himself from the bed. “I thought you were going to stay-”  
  
“I can’t stay and you know that, Mitch,” Alex says, smoothing the creases from his t-shirt. “Please don’t ask me to stay,”  
  
“Alex, please, why are you being like this?” Mitch says, grabbing the duvet and pulling it around him, as though to shield himself, the panic building in his chest.   
  
“For fucks sake, Mitch!” Alex snaps, his hands curled around his jeans. “We can’t let anyone know about this thing between us!”  
  
“This thing between us? Is that what you see?” Mitch says, hurt staining his voice. “Why don’t you want anyone to know about us?”  
  
“Because there is no us!” Alex spits out, pulling the jeans up over his hips. “There’s nothing between us, this thing is just sex! That’s all it ever was,”  
  
“Two years of sex, Alex?” Mitch says, eyes narrowed. “Why did you keep me around for two years? Was I nothing but your little fuck toy?” He snarls, pulling himself out of the bed and grabbing his own jeans, slipping them on with sharp movements.   
  
“Mitch, it’s not like that-” Alex reasons, watching the Kiwi carefully.   
  
“Then what is it like, Alexander?” Mitch says coldly. “Tell me exactly what you truly think of this thing between us,”  
  
“Mitch, please, you know we can’t be together-”  
  
“Why not? You were happy to fuck me for two years, Alex,” Mitch hisses, staring at the man he loves.   
  
“Because I’m not fucking gay!” Alex snarls back, his eyes dark with anger.  
  
Silence fills the room for a moment before Mitch pulls his t-shirt back on, ragging the material over his head before he stalks over to the door and shoves on his Pumas.   
  
“Mitch, where are you going?” Alex begins but he’s cut off by Mitch meeting his eyes, tears falling down his cheeks as he surveys the man he’s given his heart to.   
  
“I’m tired of being your secret, Alexander. I won’t be any longer,” He says quietly before he turns on his heel, the door slamming shut behind him. Alex looks at the door, tears slowly slip down his cheeks as his hand moves to ghost over the mark still bruising his skin.


	9. Jealous (Mitch/Alex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex isn't jealous of Mitch, not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Amy who wanted jealous Alex, because who isn’t a slut for jealous Alex. Also the message on the card is an actual message I once wrote on a bouquet of flowers when I worked as a florist. Posted on Tumblr.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

His brown eyes narrow as he swipes down over his instagram posts. In between the posts of his friends on holiday, their smiling faces on white sandy beaches, another post pops up with a familiar face which makes Alex stop for a moment. He’s not sure why he follows the Campos Racing account - he tells himself that he’s keeping himself involved with other teams - but he knows it’s not quite true. He’s more involved with a certain person who drives for Campos Racing. The person who is standing in the photo on his screen, gazing up at his much taller teammate. Alex feels a surge of something tug inside his chest at the sight of Mitch, his tight fireproofs encasing his body, his hair perfectly mussed as he gazes up at Sean, who looks at the Kiwi with true affection in his dark eyes-  
  
“Alex,” One of his mechanics snaps him out of his reverie as he quickly pushes his phone away.   
  


* * *

  
  
He tries not to think about the photograph as he slips on his helmet and pulls on his gloves. He tries not to consider how Sean is looking at Mitch. He’s seen the snapchat photos over the last few days, the one of Sean and Mitch in front of the mirror showing off their tanned skin had made his cock jolt to attention against his shorts. The photograph of Mitch and Sean goes around and around in his head as he slides himself into his car, ready to race. He knows that Sean has a crush on Mitch; it’s hard not to develop on a crush on the smooth talking Kiwi. He watches them carefully as they walk down the paddock in their bright-yellow overalls. Alex feels another tug of something curl inside his stomach as he watches the pair, watches Mitch grinning widely at Sean.   
  


* * *

  
  
He pulls himself out of his car and sighs heavily. Eighth position is nothing to write home about but Austria is a place where he can overtake cars and gain a fair few positions. He thinks back to Barcelona, thinks back to how happy he was when he lifted the trophy, when he thought about how many points he’d picked up. It seems like a distant memory, he thinks, as he tugs off his gloves and moves towards the weighing area. He spots Mitch a little further ahead, laughing and joking with Sean - the bright yellow overalls gleam in the Austrian sunshine. He watches Sean move in closer to the Kiwi, his arm wrapping over his shoulders as he laughs. Alex feels the sensation wash over him, he’s numbed for a moment before he realises what the sensation has been all this time.   
  
Jealousy.   
  
He watches the pair leave as he begins formulating a plan in his head. It’s easy in the end to sort it all out in the comfort of the DAMS motorhome, wrapped up in a fresh pair of sweatpants. 

 

* * *

  
  
“These are for you, Evans,” One of Mitch’s mechanics says, his expression is one of confusion as he carefully holds the enormous bouquet of sunflowers out to the Kiwi.   
  
“What the fuck are these?” Mitch asks, eyebrow raised as he takes the bouquet from the mechanic’s hands. “These aren’t for me, surely?”  
  
“They are, mate. They’re for you, got some secret admirer we don’t know about?” The mechanic teases, wiggling an eyebrow.   
  
“I’m never short of admirers,” Mitch jokes as he stares down at the sunflowers still in his hand. He decides to pop back to his motorhome to place them in water, not wanting such a beautiful bouquet to go to waste. However, as he’s making his way back to the motorhome, he bumps into Sean.   
  
“Mitch, aren’t you - oh, who are the flowers from?” He asks, his eyes locked on the bouquet.   
  
“I don’t know,” Mitch replies a little too quickly. “I was given them,”  
  
“Oh,” Sean says, his grin fading a little. “Secret admirer maybe?”  
  
Mitch feels the blush dance over his cheeks. “I’m not sure. I don’t know why anyone would want to-”  
  
Sean gives the Kiwi a small sad smile. “I can think of a few people. I think they’re from Alex,”  
  
“Why do you say that?” Mitch asks, eyebrow raised.   
  
“He never looks at anyone but you,” Sean says quietly. “I thought maybe there could be something between us,” He continues, gazing at Mitch carefully. “But I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes,”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Mitch says quietly, worrying his lip. “I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression,”  
  
Sean shakes his head. “No, no, I understand loud and clear. I’m sorry, Mitch,” He says, smiling sadly as he walks away. Mitch watches him leave, his lip still caught in between his teeth.   
  


* * *

  
  
He’s back in the motorhome filling the sink with water for the flowers when he spots the card sitting in the bouquet. He plucks it out carefully and opens the envelope. He reads over the card, a smile ghosting over his face. However, he’s interrupted as a pair of arms envelope him, the familiar scent of mint curling through the air.   
  
“Hello, beautiful,” Alex’s husky deep voice purrs against his ear as he shudders, Alex’s lips slowly curving over his tanned skin.   
  
“Mmmm, missed you,” Mitch whispers, his eyes closing as Alex’s lips dance over his skin, peppering it with slow, soft kisses. “Missed you out there,”  
  
“Did you now?” Alex says, a small smile curving over his face. “Looked like you were getting comfy with Sean there,” He continues, his lips still moving over Mitch’s neck, his hand ghosting down over Mitch’s fireproofs. “Was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,”  
  
“Never, how could I forget about you,” Mitch says, whining a little as Alex’s tongue moves out to dance over his skin, eliciting a shudder of pleasure from the Kiwi. Alex’s hand inches down towards his cock, cupping at him through the scratchy Nomex. “I set the record straight with Sean. You were jealous, weren’t you?”  
  
“Me? Never,” Alex purrs against Mitch’s skin, his hand cupping gently at Mitch’s cock. “Why would I do that?” He smiles as Mitch’s head falls back against his shoulder.  
  
“You sent me flowers,” Mitch says, gasping out as the warmth curls over his lower abdomen.   
  
“Can’t I send my husband flowers anymore?” Alex says quietly, nipping at Mitch’s neck with his lips.   
  
“Alex, we shouldn’t, not now-” Mitch mutters, his eyes closing once more as Alex’s lips dance over his skin, his hand curving over his erection.   
  
“Tell me to stop then,” Alex teases. But Mitch doesn’t, he lets Alex press his lips over his skin, lets the taller man press his hand over his swollen weeping cock through his fireproofs as the card slips out of his hand. On it are four words.   
__  
To Wifey  
Love Husband  
xxx


	10. 3AM (Pierre/Mitch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitch is awoken at three in the morning by a visitor he wasn't expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "Why are you at my doorstep at 3 in the morning?". A big thank you to Emma, Nino and Jamie for kicking my ass with this one. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Mitch’s brow furrows as he hears the faint knock against his door, rolling over and checking his phone. The screen informs him that it’s just past three in the morning. He sinks back into the pillow and wonders if he’s just imagined it, if it’s just drunken Sean forgetting that Antonio’s room is next door. Another knock breaks through the silence. Placing his phone down on the table, he slides out of the rumpled sheets and pads over to the door. He shivers slightly at the cool air dancing over his skin - Malaysia is hot at this time of year, but Mitch still finds himself shivering at the absence of the sheets slick against his skin.    
  
He’s surprised to see Pierre standing on the other side of the door with tear-filled, red eyes, wearing an oversized DAMS hoodie and a look of misery. He furrows his brow - himself and Pierre have never been particularly close, they’ve hung out sometimes, mostly because of Alex, so he’s surprised to see the Frenchman standing in the doorway. His hair is slightly damp and mussed and his eyes are rubbed raw, tears falling down his cheeks.    
  
“Pierre, what’s wrong?”   
  
“I’m sorry...I just,” Pierre says, his voice slightly wavering and wet. He rubs his eyes dry, shuffling from side to side. “I just...I thought this was Antonio’s room,”   
  
“No,” Mitch says. “Are you alright?”   
  
“I...I just didn’t know where else to go,” Pierre says, looking down at his trainers. He hugs himself, the sleeves of the hoodie flopping around his sides. Mitch sighs under his breath as he pulls Pierre into his room, his wrist curling over the soft, grey material.    
  
“I’m sorry,” Pierre says, his teeth biting his lip as Mitch leads him over to the bed. The French teenager lowers himself into the sheets, tugging off his trainers, Mitch’s hand still curled over his wrist, thumb stroking over the thin material.    
  
“You want to talk about it?” Mitch asks, his eyes dark in the dim light.    
  
“Alex and I-”Pierre says, tears silently falling down his tears. “He doesn’t want to be with me anymore,”   
  
“Why?” Mitch asks, his fingers still stroking over Pierre’s wrist. “Did he say why?”   
  
“He just said he didn’t love me anymore,” Pierre mutters, fresh tears falling down his cheeks as he falls against Mitch’s bare chest. Mitch’s eyes widen as the wetness smears against his tanned skin, his arms moving to curl around Pierre. He twists one of his hands into Pierre’s hair, stroking over the soft chocolate strands as Pierre sobs against his chest. Mitch worries his lip as he lowers them into the sheets, his hands still holding onto Pierre, the French teenagers arms curved tightly around his neck.    
  
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Mitch whispers, burying his nose into Pierre’s hair.    
  
The scent of his shampoo - orange and vanilla drifts into Mitch’s nostrils as his hand rubs over Pierre’s back, allowing the French teenager to sob into his chest. Sticky, wet tears ghost over his skin as Mitch thinks about Alex - he used to have a crush on the tall Brit, before he heard that he was dating the boy currently sobbing in his arms. He imagines him angry, imagines him red in the face as he yells at Pierre.    
  
“I just...I loved him with everything I had,” Pierre mutters under his breath, hiccuping with each breath. “I gave him everything, we lost our virginity together,”   
  
“And he just ended it like that?” Mitch asks, his hands still stroking over the Frenchman’s back. “He doesn’t deserve you, Pierre,”   
  
“It’s me that doesn’t deserve him...maybe I asked too much of him? Maybe I was too clingy?” Pierre says, another sob wracking his body.    
  
“No, no,” Mitch says, shaking his head, his hand still stroking through Pierre’s soft hair. “You’re fine as you are, if someone can’t love you as you are, with all your flaws, they don’t deserve to love you at all,” He says softly.    
  
Pierre lifts his head up slowly, his eyes are still red, rimmed with crystal tears. He glances up at Mitch slowly, silently. Mitch meets his gaze, a small smile dancing over his lips as he leans in and closes the gap between them. Their lips close over each other, slowly, hesitant - Mitch watches Pierre’s eyes slowly close as he kisses the soft lips of the French teenager.   
  
His arm tightens around Pierre’s waist as they kiss slowly and lazily, Mitch’s hand fisting into the oversized DAMS hoodie. Pierre’s hand moves to slide into Mitch’s hair, tugging on fistfuls of the thick, dark curls as Mitch draws him into the kiss. His lips ghost over Pierre’s, a groan dancing over the chapped lips of the teenager as Pierre tugs on his hair. He knows that Pierre needs this, he needs to feel like someone loves him, that someone still cares.    
  
Pierre’s hand clings to his neck, the other twisting through his hair as their bodies rock against each other, their lips still connected together. Their kisses are still lazy as Pierre’s hand tangles through Mitch’s hair, his tongue swiping over the crease of Mitch’s lips. Mitch moans at the contact as he pulls away for air, pants filling the thick air, the sheets twisted around the pair. Pierre smirks at him - the devilish one that is usually reserved for when he wins races - as he snags the bottom of his hoodie and pulls off the oversized garment in one swoop. He falls back against Mitch’s lips, Mitch’s hands ghosting over Pierre’s pale, warm skin, mapping every inch that he can.    
  
“Mitch-” Pierre gasps out as Mitch sucks on his lips, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

The kiss becomes more heated as Pierre presses himself against Mitch, their bare torso rubbing against one another, Mitch’s golden necklace cool against the French teenager’s sweaty skin. Mitch’s tongue slides against Pierre’s - the teenager tastes of sweat and salt, he thinks as his hand moves to gently cup at Pierre’s cheek. Pierre responds to the kiss eagerly, his teeth biting down on Mitch’s lips, worrying them and eliciting a moan from the small Kiwi. Mitch feels the warmth and heat wash over him as he loses himself in the kiss, loses himself in Pierre, his hands still twisting into Pierre’s hair. However, he feels Pierre’s hand brush against the thin cotton of his boxer shorts and recoils, wrenching his lips away. Pierre glances at him, unguarded before his face falls.    
  
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” He says, moving to pull away from Mitch, his cheeks red from shame.   
  
Mitch shakes his head, pulling the French teenager closer to him. “It’s okay, I’m sorry-”   
  
“You don’t want me,” Pierre says in a small voice, his eyes filling with tears.    
  
“Pierre, it’s not that, I just don’t want to take advantage of you, you’re hurting and I don’t want to be that guy,”   
  
“Mitch-” Pierre begins but Mitch smiles at him, stroking over the soft curls of the French teenager’s hair.    
  
“You’re hurting and I won’t do that to you,” Mitch says, his hands settling in Pierre’s hair. The younger man sighs and leans into Mitch’s touch as Mitch’s other arm squeezes tightly around his waist, pulling him tight against his chest.    
  
“But can I stay?” Pierre asks against Mitch’s hand tentatively, worrying his lip.    
  
“Of course,” Mitch whispers as Pierre brushes his lip to his hand.    
  
“Thank you,” Pierre mutters as Mitch finds himself smiling, his hand wrapped tightly around Pierre as he feels the younger man relax against him, stroking over the soft curls as his gaze moves back over to his phone.    
  
_ 4:30AM.  _ It reads. He knows he’ll be tired in the morning, but it was worth it, he thinks, his fingers slowly carding through Pierre’s hair as he watches the blue eyes slide shut. 


	11. Lips [Mitch/Alex]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex takes Mitch for a drive but he's not keen on the attention that Mitch is giving his phone. Mitch soon changes all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Emma's prompt, "Your lips would look better around my cock - Ace/Mitch,". This was inspired by Alex's latest Tumblr post of him driving a car yesterday through what looked like a country lane, and well, I imagined that his favourite Kiwi was with him, making him feel good with a cheeky blowjob ;)
> 
> I should warn you, for the first time, do not try this at home. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“What are you doing?” Alex says with a raised eyebrow, watching Mitch tap away hurriedly on his iPhone as the car smoothly rolls down the country lane. It was Alex’s idea to go for an early morning drive in the Aston, the top rolled down, the warm English sunshine beating down on their backs. However, the relaxing drive in Alex’s mind soon ground to a halt when he found his boyfriend tapping furiously into his phone at the side of him, a small smile curving over his lips.    
  
“What’s so funny?” Alex asks with a quirked eyebrow.    
  
“Nothing, nothing,” Mitch says, not looking up from his phone.   
  
Alex watches his boyfriend carefully - he’s missed him - the week that Mitch had spent in Indonesia with Sean and Antonio had seemed like a lifetime to him. Mitch had returned only yesterday, more tanned than ever, with a wide smile on his face and dark smudges under his eyes. He’d fallen into Alex’s arms at the airport gate, accepting the slow, soft kiss. Alex’s arm had curving over his waist, pulling him closer. He’d slept most of the way home, curled up against the door of the car and Alex had to hide his smile at having the Kiwi back with him.    
  
“Sean just sent me a photo of Tonio drooling against his shoulder, I told him to draw a dick on his cheek,” Mitch says, smiling as he taps away on his phone.    
  
Alex forces out a laugh as he watches his boyfriend reply to another message, presumably Sean - they’ve become closer in the last few months. He watches Mitch, watches the smile on his boyfriend’s lips. Mitch notices his stare and glances up, slight confusion ghosting over his features.    
  
“What’s wrong?”   
  
“Nothing,” Alex mutters, his eyes flicking back to the road.    
  
“Lex, what’s the matter? You’re being all moody again,” Mitch says, worrying his lip.    
  
“It’s nothing,” Alex cuts off his boyfriend, eyes still focused on the road ahead, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Let’s just drive back home,”   
  
“Lex,” Mitch sighs, exasperated. “Just tell me what’s the matter,”   
  
“No, it’s fine. Why don’t you snapchat Sean or Tonio about everything instead? I’m sure that they’d do a better job of being your boyfriend than me,” Alex snaps, hating himself in that moment as he feels Mitch’s hurt eyes on him.    
  
“Is this what this is about?” Mitch asks slowly, pressing a hand through his hair. “We talked about this, Lex, there’s nothing to worry about,”   
  
“You went away for a week, Mitchell,” Alex says, coldly. “I just...I don’t want to be that boyfriend, that person who doesn’t trust you, but you - I saw the photographs on Instagram of you three all cuddled together on the jetty,” He sighs heavily.    
  
“How many times do I have to tell you, Lex?” Mitch says, his phone forgotten. “There’s nothing going on between us, I-” He pinches his temple. “Look, there was a reason that we all went to Indonesia together,”   
  
“Yeah, you said for work, there wasn’t that much work going on, Mitchy,” Alex says coldly.    
  
“Sean and Tonio got married,” Mitch bites out. He glances over to his boyfriend, watching his face go pale and his dark eyes widen at the revelation. “They got married whilst we were out there and they wanted me to be with them when they-”    
  
“They got married?” Alex asks, his tone is one of disbelief. “I didn’t even know they were dating-”   
  
“Barely anyone knew about them,” Mitch says, looking down at his shoes. “They just wanted it to be me. I knew about them from the start and I didn’t want to tell you because I wanted them to be the ones to tell you on their terms but-” He worries his lip. “I’m sorry,”   
  
“No, I’m sorry,” Alex says. “I’ve been a shit boyfriend. I’m sorry for being a grump,” Alex says. “And I’ve ruined this nice drive,”   
  
“I wouldn’t say that,” Mitch says, smirking as he places his hand on Alex’s bare leg. Alex inhales sharply at the contact, at the sensation of Mitch’s warm hand against his thigh. “You’re quite hot when you’re all angry and jealous,” He mutters, his fingers sliding under the thin fabric of Alex’s shorts. 

  
“Mitch-” Alex breathes out, it’s a jagged exhale - “we shouldn’t, I - I’m driving,”   
  
“Remember when you fucked me in the simulator that one time?” Mitch whispers, leaning in, smirk still dancing over his face. “When my legs were wrapped around your waist, when you fucked me up against that steering wheel, made me so fucking wet, ace,”    
  
Alex bites down on his tongue at the last word that falls from Mitch’s lips - he’s always loved the nickname, a few of his friends call him it but none of them say it quite like the small Kiwi does.    
  
“Mitchy, please-” He whispers as Mitch’s hand slides under his shorts, hands warm against his thighs.    
  
“What’s the matter, ace?” Mitch purrs, cocking his head slightly. “Don’t you want me? Would you rather I got shagged by Sean? Or Tonio? Or Artem?” He grins widely as he watches Alex bite his lip.    
  
“Mitch, stop teasing,” Alex bites out and Mitch smirks as he feels how hard Alex is, his cock standing out against the thin material of his patterned shorts. “Fuck-”    
  
“What do you want, Lex?” Mitch purrs, his hands tracing over Alex’s skin, fingertips moving under his boxer shorts. “Do you want me to suck your dick?”   
  
“Mitch-” Alex mutters, his knuckles are white against the steering wheel. “I-” He begins, but the words die on his lips as Mitch’s hands move to slide down the thin shorts that Alex is wearing, his thick, hard cock, pulsating with blood pops out from beneath the material, standing proudly against Alex’s thigh. Mitch eyes it greedily, drinking in the sight before him.    
  
“You’re beautiful,” Mitch says before he leans down, elbows pressing against Alex’s knee and the car interior as he takes Alex’s mouth into his hand, marvelling at how big it is. He smiles at the thready, breathless sigh that breaks from Alex’s lips before he takes Alex in his mouth - smiling as he feels Alex shift against the car seat, moving his hips slightly, his head hitting the back of the leather seat.    
  
“Fuck, Mitch,” He mutters, his hands still on the steering wheel, gripping it tightly as Mitch’s tongue traces over the thick vein in his cock. 

Mitch drags his tongue up and down Alex’s cock, smiling as he feels Alex’s hand tangle into his thick, dark hair. He groans against Alex’s dick as Alex tugs hard on his hair, his fingertips scraping against Mitch’s scalp as he rocks against the Kiwi’s mouth. Mitch’s fingernails move to scrape over Alex’s pale freckled thighs as his tongue swirls over the tip of Alex’s cock, catching the salty pre-come that clings to the tip.  
  
Alex’s head slams against the leather of his seat as Mitch’s fingernails dig into his thigh, leaving half-crescent moons in the soft skin as Mitch’s tongue presses over the undershaft of Alex’s cock, teasing, mapping every inch as Alex bucks up against him. Alex is enjoying the sensation of Mitch’s warm wet mouth pressing over his shaft, his lips glistening with saliva as his tongue travels back up along the shaft, swirling over the tip. He finds himself gasping against Alex’s dick as Alex tugs on his curls, breath ghosting over the slickened shaft.   
  
“You, you’re-” Alex bites down, his other hand still on the steering wheel. 

The car is still travelling down the road, the wind ruffling Alex’s messy hair as Mitch’s tongue dips in and out of his slit. The salty taste of Alex’s pre-come hovers over his tongue, the Kiwi’s hands still twist into Alex’s thigh, fingernails marking the pale skin. Alex’s hand moves to press him down further, his mouth taking in more of Alex’s cock, his tongue tracing over the base, close to the thick, dark hair. Alex presses his hips up, as Mitch laps at the base of his hardened cock, teasing at the soft, sensitive skin.    
  
“Jesus fucking christ,” Alex bites out. “Mitch, I’m - I,” He mutters out as Mitch sucks hard on the skin, hips bucking up harder, the car jolting slightly as Alex’s head falls against the seat. Mitch smirks against Alex’s cock, pressing a small kiss to the skin as Alex arches back, letting a grunt as he comes in Mitch’s mouth. The small Kiwi’s tongue swipes over the slit to catch the droplets of the thick, sticky liquid, salt bursting over his tongue as Alex slumps against the leather seat, panting for air, his hand still tangled in Mitch’s hair.   
  
“Fuck, that was incredible,” Alex whispers as Mitch pops his mouth off his cock, his lips are still slick with saliva as he wipes his mouth, eyes gleaming with satisfaction, his hair slightly mussed from Alex’s hands. He smirks at Alex widely.    
  
“So am I good enough to marry one day, ace?” He teases, smirk still clinging to the corners of his mouth.    
  
“Only if you suck my dick before the ceremony,” Alex bites back, smiling. He’s always loved this connection they have, the way they bounce off one another, always teasing, always testing.    
  
“Challenge accepted,” Mitch says with a devilish smile, lips still swollen. 


	12. Just A Crush [Sergey/Oli]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergey has always had a crush on Oli. He just doesn't know how to show it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a bit of a strange one as I've never written this two before but when I was undertaking research, I found out they were teammates together and that, coupled with the photo below, prompted this fic to be born. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

  
  


* * *

Sergey fiddles with the collar of his overalls, his fingers sliding over the scratchy material as he watches Oli in the other garage. The Brit’s back is to him, his overalls tied around his waist, the fireproofs sticking to him like a glove. Sergey tries not to glance at the sweat sticking at his shoulderblades, leaving the off-grey material darker than usual - he’s been having these thoughts about Oli for a while now - he’s not sure what he likes about the smaller Brit, the one who makes him smile after races, who slaps his shoulder after he’s had a long day.

He watches the small Brit fiddle around with his helmet, Alex Lynn next to him, a small smile on his lips as they talk together. Alex leans into Oli’s space, shoving at his shoulder playfully, his hand lingering for a moment against the tight fireproofs. Sergey’s eyes seek the floor, glancing down at his racing boots, trying to ignore the dull ache in his chest. 

  
“Pining again, Sergey?” A familiar voice whispers behind him in Russian, a tanned arm curling around his shoulder.    
  
“Fuck off, Markelov,” Sergey mutters, trying to pull away from his fellow Russian but Artem clings tightly to his shoulder, smirk dancing on his face. “Haven’t you got better things to do? Is Mitch busy?”   
  
“Watching you pine over Oliver is so much better,” Artem says, flashing a wide smile. “Are you ever going to ask him out?”   
  
“I doubt he’s even gay. And even if he was, why would he like someone like me?” Sergey says, worrying his lip.    
  
“Hey,” Artem says, the playfulness in his tone gone. “Any man would be falling over himselves to have you, fuck, if I wasn’t taken by two gorgeous men, I’d have climbed you ages ago-” Artem says, smiling devilishly.    
  
“Not everyone is like you, Artem,” Sergey says quietly, wishing he were more like his outgoing, handsome fellow Russian. “I doubt he’s even interested,”   
  
“How could he not? Big strapping lad like you? Bet he’d love to have you in his arms,” The smirk remains on Artem’s face, Sergey resists the urge to punch it off. He watches Oli carefully, watches Alex move closer to him, the smile clinging to his perfect face. The smirk on Artem’s face intensifies.    
  
“Whatever you’re thinking, forget it,” Sergey begins, only for Artem to push him forward, (there’s some strange strength in those spindly arms of his, Sergey thinks), his hand curving around his shoulder as he pulls his fellow Russian over to the English pair. “Watch and learn,” He purrs. “Hey, sexy,” He cuts in, dark eyes fixed on Alex. “Did you miss me?”   
  
Sergey waits for Alex to punch Artem in the face, but the Brit does not such thing. Instead, he  _ smiles _ at the Russian, smirk curving over his lips, eyes dark and dancing.    
  
“Of course I did, babe,” Alex responds and Sergey feels his mouth drop open as he watches the pair, Artem’s hand sliding away from his shoulder.    
  
“Didn’t seem like it,” Artem purrs, his hand moving to curve against Alex’s chest. “You never called me back after that amazing night that we spent together,”    
  
Sergey watches the pair, blush dancing over his cheeks as he takes in the sight of Oli wearing a similar expression of confusion, his cheeks red from embarrassment. “Do you think we should leave these two and go somewhere a little more private?” Alex says, voice low, and Sergey has never heard the Brit sound this way before. He finds it unnerving, watching the smirk on Artem’s face as their hands tangle together and Alex is pulled away from the pair, a smile on his lips as he is tugged away to the Russian Time garage.    
  
“Well, I didn’t expect that,” Oli says, quietly.    
  
Sergey feels the blush stinging over his neck as he glances at the Brit. “I thought he was dating Mitch,”   
  
“Who knows with Artem,” Oli jokes playfully, small smile on his lips. “I wish I had his confidence,”   
  
Sergey raises an eyebrow. “C’mon, I bet you get all the girls all over you,” feeling his cheeks heat up as he watches Oli’s eyes fall on him.    
  
“Nah,” Oli says, shaking his head. “I think I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have sex with someone, there’s cobwebs down there,”   
  
Sergey feels his face turn beetroot red, his teeth caught between his lip. “That’s...unfortunate, you never seemed to have any problems when we were in Formula Renault,”   
  
“I was young and had my rugged good looks then,” Oli says, grinning.   
  
Sergey feels his mouth go dry at Oli’s words. “You still have your rugged good looks...I mean, you’ve always been good looking-” He looks down at his shoes, wishing he was Artem, wishing that he could make Oli melt, make the Brit laugh as easily as Alex did.    
  
“Sergey, you’re such a sweet talker,” Oli replies, smile ghosting over his lips. “How are the girls not lining up waiting to date you?”   
  
“They’re…not my type,” Sergey finds himself saying, watching Oli’s eyes widen in surprise for a moment. “I mean...I just-”   
  
“You like guys?” Oli asks softly, his eyes locked on the Russian.    
  
Sergey finds himself nodding, unable to find the words to reply.    
  
“Hey, it’s okay if you like guys, Sergey,”   
  
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” Sergey asks softly, not daring to look at the Brit, to see the disappointment in his eyes.    
  
“Hey,” Oli says softly. “It’s not my story to tell, Sergey.”   
  
“I just don’t want things to be weird between us-” Sergey mutters, worrying his lip. “I don’t want you to see me-”   
  
“Things wouldn’t be weird between us, Sergey,” Oli says, his voice barely audible over the noise of the garage. “Not since I like guys too,” His voice dips lower, blue eyes locking on Sergey’s blue-green ones.    
  
“Oh,” Sergey says quietly, still not looking up to Oli. He remembers when he first met Oli. He remembers being eighteen with bad hair and acne, shaking the hand of a young man with a wide, white smile. Oli had always looked good, always had the girls flocking around him, always had someone on his arm at every single race. He remembers the crush he’d had when they were teammates, remembers glancing at the long line of his back, the pale skin taunting from underneath tight grey fireproof overalls. Sergey had tried to bury the crush, tried to convince himself that Oli would never look at someone like him twice, tried to wank quietly in his hotel room, tried to bury his feelings.    
  
“That’s your signal, Sergey,” Oli says, smirk on his lips, blue eyes shining.    
  
“What?” Sergey asks, finally glancing up at the Brit. “What are you talking about?”   
  
“I want you to stop being an idiot and kiss me,” Oli replies, his voice slightly breathless.    
  
Sergey feels his mouth drop open, his eyes widen at the Brit’s words. “What?”   
  
“I know you like me, Sergey, you’ve liked me for years,” Oli says, moving closer to the Russian. “Or am I reading too much into this?” He leans in, his eyes flicking to Sergey’s lips.    
  
“Oli, I-” Sergey begins but the words die on his lips as Oli closes the gap, his breath ghosting over Sergey’s cheek as his hand fists into the collar of Sergey’s overalls. He drags the Russian forward, smile still on his lips, their eyes lock together as Oli finally presses his lips against Sergey’s. Sergey immediately responds to the warm lips against his own - he’s kissed a few people, kissed Artem when he was drunk, but it’s _ nothing _ like this.    
  
He moans into the kiss, Oli’s hand still fisted into his overalls, the Brit’s tongue teasing over the crease of his chapped lips. Oli has to lean up, his other hand moving to curl around Sergey’s neck as Sergey’s arm pulls him in, fingers settling over his waist. He never imagined it would feel like this, the warmth curving in his chest as Oli’s lips glide against his own, tongue tracing over the crease before he opens his mouth. Oli tastes of sweat, the salt hangs on Sergey’s tongue, with a faint trace of motor oil and something citrus-like, lemons or limes, Sergey can’t pinpoint the exact taste. Oli whines against him, his fingers tightening on the Nomex as they kiss.    
  
Sergey finally pulls away for breath, watches Oli’s lips shining with sweat. Oli smiles at him, shows off the small genuine smile curling over his lips. “Finally,” He whispers, his breath dancing over Sergey’s cheek as the Russian feels his own smile curve over his lips as he leans in for another kiss. Oli’s hand is still fisted in his overalls and the sound of engines roaring cuts through the silence but none of that matters in that moment for the couple, lips pressing against each other once more.    
  
“Glad those two idiots sorted themselves out,” Artem mutters behind the tyre wall, eyes locked on the pair.    
  
“Can we go now?” Alex asks, his voice laced with impatience.    
  
“Do you want to sort me out, ace?” Artem whispers, as Alex leans in, pressing his lips against the Russian’s, eliciting a low moan from his lips.    
  
“Would be my pleasure,” Alex mutters against his neck as he tugs Artem away from the MP garage, their fingers folding together.    



	13. Mudblood (Mitch/Alex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex knew something was the matter when Mitch didn’t turn for their Defence against the Dark Arts lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I struggled a lot with this fic but I thought I'd post it because well, I'm sick of looking at it. This is dedicated to everyone who puts up with me, for everything you do. 
> 
> This is set in the Harry Potter universe, of which I've been getting to grips with a lot this week. It's more of a loose imagining of the Room of Requirement though. Mitch is a Gryffindor as is Pierre, Alex is a Slytherin. Don't like the houses I put them in? Write your own story. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Alex knew something was the matter when Mitch didn’t turn for their Defence against the Dark Arts lesson. He knew that he looked forward to the lessons with Professor Ricciardo each week - he was usually the first person there but the space he usually occupied next to Pierre was empty. Professor Ricciardo himself looks surprised when he takes his register and Mitch doesn’t answer. Alex tries to get Pierre’s attention, but as always, the Gryffindor is enthralled in the lesson, his blue eyes fixed on Professor Ricciardo as he strides around animatedly. Usually, Alex would have the same approach - he does love Professor Ricciardo’s lessons - but the empty seat next to Pierre makes him uneasy. It’s not like Mitch to miss his favourite lesson.    
  
“Today we will be discussing werewolves,” Professor Ricciardo begins as Alex quietly tears a piece of parchment from his roll as his teacher speaks, scribbling hurriedly on it with a quill as Professor Ricciardo turns to face the blackboard.    
  
_ Is Mitch okay? _ __   
__   
He folds the paper in half, placing a small hover charm onto it under his breath. Pierre is still glancing at Professor Ricciardo scribbling the words onto the blackboard when he feels the paper nudge his hand. He glances at Alex for a moment, his hand curling over the paper as Professor Ricciardo whips back around. “Can anyone tell me the defining features of a werewolf?”   
  
Pierre’s hand immediately flies up into the air as it always does, the paper forgotten.    
  


* * *

  
  
Alex is thankful when the lesson draws to a close, shoving all his quills and ink away into his bag. He has to wait for Pierre though, who is last to exit, wanting to go over the finer details of werewolves with Professor Ricciardo. Pierre finally emerges ten minutes later, looking pleased with himself, carrying a stack of textbooks as he always does - Alex is surprised by this point that he hasn’t given himself back problems - his grin fades when he sees Alex.    
  
“What is it, Alexander?” Pierre asks, his eyes are cold and blue, fixed on him.    
  
“Where’s Mitch?” Alex asks, ignoring the hostility - he’s used to it, there’s still some lingering sense of bitterness, not only due to their conflicting houses but due to their family history. “I didn’t see him around today-”   
  
“Maybe you should ask your friend, Max,” Pierre snarls, holding his books closer to his chest. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have Arithmancy and Professor Button wanted to see me earlier so-”    
  
Alex can say nothing else as the Gryffindor sweeps past him without another word. He sighs heavily as he shifts his bag from one shoulder to the other and descends down the staircase which begins to move in the opposite direction to the dungeons where his Potions class with Professor Hulkenberg is located. He curses under his breath as the staircase finally stops moving and he finds himself running up the stairs and onto the seventh floor corridor if the tapestry of Fangio is anything to go by. He remembers the staircase that leads down to the dungeons as he glances down at his watch - he’s over ten minutes late for his potions lesson and although Professor Hulkenberg is lenient with his Slytherins, but ten minutes is pushing it. He half jogs down the corridor, worrying his lip, the books in his bag slapping against his back but he sees something gleam on the floor as he’s about to pass the Fangio tapestry. It’s a necklace, the gold gleams in the light. Alex bends down to pick the necklace up - he knows it. He’s seen it around Mitch’s neck hundreds of times and he’s never seen the Gryffindor take it off. His hand curves around the small gold coin, enveloping it tightly in his hand.    
  
He wonders if Mitch has come up this way to get down to Potions - but he thinks twice. Mitch  _ hates _ Potions. He wouldn’t skip Defence Against the Dark Arts to run all the way to Potions. Glancing around and behind him, Alex feels his brow furrow as he glances at the tapestry before him, of Fangio taming the trolls, he’s always found it ridiculous. He turns on his heel and moves backwards towards the opposite side of the corridor.    
  
“Mitch?” He asks out, but there’s no answer.    
  
He frowns, glancing down at the necklace still in his hand. He knows that it belongs to Mitch, he’s seen it several times resting against the Gryffindor’s bronzed chest. He walks back towards the tapestry of Fangio, wondering if he should go and hover outside the Gryffindor common room, if Carlos, the attractive Head Boy is around to help him. As Alex is passing the tapestry, he sees something out of the corner of his eye on the opposite wall and stops. There’s a door on the opposite wall, a door that he’s never seen before.    
  
He frowns, necklace still held tightly in his hand as he glances at the door before him. It’s beautiful - carved from dark mahogany wood, its ornate pattern is like one that Alex has never seen before. The handle is silver and gleams in the dim light from the torches lit along the corridor. Taking a deep breath, Alex approaches the door. He stops and glances at it for a moment, taking in the ornate details carved into the wood as his hand moves to touch the door handle. He feels his teeth bite down on his lip as he slowly pulls the handle down and the door swings open.    
  
Hearing footsteps behind him and knowing that he should be in lessons and that Brundle, the crooked, bitter caretaker may be hovering, Alex hurriedly closes the door and steps inside the room. It’s a strange room with giant stained glass windows, three enormous white pillars span the length of the room. There’s a fireplace crackling at the far end of the room and the floor is filled with a large number of squishy, soft cushions. Alex finds himself pulling his wand out of his pocket as he ascends further into the room - spotting a large pile of cushions near the fireplace.    
  
“Hello?” He calls out softly.    
  
The cushions stir slightly, the shadows moving against the light that the fire casts off up the blue walls. Alex’s heart hammers in his chest as he moves closer to the blankets and cushions, ready to fire off a spell if needed. Biting down on his tongue, he moves closer, his robes shuffling around his ankles, the necklace still gripped tightly in his hand. However, the blankets fall down and his eyes widen as he takes in the sight of his boyfriend wrapped under them.    
  
“Mitch?” He says, surprise tinging his tone.    
  
The Gryffindor looks awful. His hair is mussed and standing on end, his eyes are glassy and red-rimmed as though he’s been crying and his cheeks are blotchy. Alex immediately drops to his knees next to Mitch, brown eyes meeting lighter brown ones.    
  
“Why are you here?” He asks, softly, pushing his wand back into the pocket of his trousers. Mitch doesn’t answer. Alex leans in, gently cupping Mitch’s cheek with his hand. “Mitch, what’s wrong?”   
  
Mitch doesn’t look at him, his jaw clenched, tears forming in his eyes. “Just leave me alone,”   
  
“Mitch, has something happened?” Alex presses, keeping his voice soft.    
  
“Why don’t you ask your friend Max?” Mitch growls low in his throat, pushing Alex’s hand away.    
  
Alex frowns. Max Verstappen is a fellow Slytherin and like Alex, possesses a rich family with the purest blood imaginable. They get on - Max respects Alex and his lineage but Alex keeps him at arms length, knowing the opinions the boy has of other houses and his family’s history of dark magic. “What about him? What did he do?”   
  
“Nothing!” Mitch cuts in, his voice watery. “Can you just go? I don’t even know how you found me! You’re not supposed to be here!”   
  
“I was worried about you!” Alex says, brow furrowed. “Am I not allowed to be worried about my boyfriend?”   
  
“Alex, just go, I don’t want to be around anyone-”   
  
“Tell me what’s wrong-”   
  
“Okay, fine, Max called me a Mudblood! Okay? Happy now?” Mitch snarls out, tears falling down his cheeks.    
  
“He called you  _ what _ ?” Alex hisses dangerously, hand tightening around Mitch’s necklace. “I’ll -”   
  
“You’ll do nothing,” Mitch says, shaking his head.    
  
“But Mitch-”   
  
“Just leave it, it’s true anyway isn’t it? Everyone says it...I know everyone laughs at you for going out with someone with such dirty blood-”   
  
“Mitch,” Alex cuts in softly, his hand moving to cup Mitch’s cheek once more. “I love you, regardless of what your blood is like. You’re a beautiful person inside and out and you’re an exceptional wizard,”   
  
“But-” Mitch begins, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. 

  
“No buts,” Alex says softly, thumb catching the tear that rolls down Mitch’s face. “He doesn’t know you, doesn’t know that you got the best mark in the Defence Against the Dark Arts exams, doesn’t know that let Tonio take your potions ingredients that one time so he wouldn’t get in trouble, that you cheered me on in Quidditch even though we were playing Gryffindor. He doesn’t know any of those things, he doesn’t know what a talented wizard you are and he doesn’t deserve to know,”   
  
“Alex-” Mitch says, tears still falling down his cheeks.    
  
“Hey,” Alex whispers, drawing Mitch closer to him, feeling the Gryffindor melt against his chest, his robes suddenly becoming wet with Mitch’s tears as he sobs against Alex. Alex finds his hands curving around Mitch’s back, pulling him closer. Mitch melts against him, folds into his body, gripping on his robes as he sobs out his anger and frustration, Alex’s hand gently rubbing over his back.    
  
“I lost my necklace too, the one I always wear, what if he’s picked it up and-” Mitch says between sobs.    
  
“I’ve got it,” Alex says quietly.    
  
Mitch turns his dark eyes to glance at Alex. “What?”   
  
“I have it,” Alex says, showing off the necklace still gleaming in his hand, the other hand still on Mitch’s back rubbing over the skin. Mitch glances up at the necklace, tears still glassy in his dark eyes, a small smile dancing on his lips. Alex says nothing else as he carefully undoes the clasp on the necklace, his hands moving to ghost over Mitch’s neck. Mitch is silent as Alex places the necklace around his neck, the golden coin shining in the dim light as it falls against Mitch’s bronzed chest. Alex carefully does the clasp, his hand sweeping over Mitch’s neck slowly.    
  
“That’s better,” He murmurs, his hands sliding over Mitch’s skin. Mitch says nothing else as he leans in, grabbing Alex by his emerald green tie and pulls him down, capturing his lips. Alex’s hand, still against Mitch’s neck, fists into the back of his hair, as he moans into the kiss.   
  
“Mitch-” Alex moans against the Gryffindor’s lips. It’s a slow, soft kiss - like the ones they shared at the top of the tower that one time or by the pumpkins near Professor Perez’s hut. Alex’s hand cards through Mitch’s hair, the necklace hitting his neck as their lips twist against one another, Mitch’s hand still on Alex’s tie. The kiss seems to last a lifetime, Mitch’s lips moving against his own, breathily sighs pulling themselves from his lips before they both finally pull apart, panting for air.    
  
“Mitch-” Alex says, smiling at the Gryffindor.    
  
“Alex,” Mitch smiles back, settling against Alex.    
  
“What is this place anyway?” Alex asks, glancing around.    
  
“I don’t know...Tonio showed it to me once, apparently, it appears when you need it. I needed a place to feel safe so-” Mitch says, his head resting against Alex’s chest.    
  
“You’re always safe with me,” Alex says softly, his hand finding Mitch’s. His thumb strokes over Mitch’s hand. “And you missed Professor Ricciardo’s excellent lesson,”   
  
Alex feels Mitch stiffen against him. “You’re kidding me-”   
  
“Hey,” Alex says, hand stroking over Mitch’s. “I’m sure Pierre will lend you his notes. Just stay with me for now, okay?”   
  
And Mitch does, curled up against the Slytherin’s chest. Alex presses a kiss to Mitch’s hair and thinks about how to persuade the house elves to let him slip something into Max Verstappen’s pumpkin juice the next morning. 


	14. Trouble (Sergey/Ollie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you’re the famous Oliver Rowland,” The man hisses at him in Russian, his foot hooked over one of the legs of the chair, making it perch precariously over the large hole that’s in the wooden floor, his beautiful ornate gun pressed against Ollie’s temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is for the bestest friend in the entire world, who has had a rough time of things recently. She wanted Rowkin and who am I to resist? Emma, this is for you, for all you've done, for being my rock, for being my sunshine. Bit of background, this is sort of a Bratva/spy fic. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“So you’re the famous Oliver Rowland,” The man hisses at him in Russian, his foot hooked over one of the legs of the chair, making it perch precariously over the large hole that’s in the wooden floor, his beautiful ornate gun pressed against Ollie’s temple. Ollie is sure that he knows the man from somewhere, certain that he’s seen him before when he’s infiltrated Kvyat’s parties before. He bears the tattoo of the Bratva, stark black against his pale skin, his hair slicked back, his eyes black as obsidian burning into Ollie.   
  
Ollie furrows his brow, pretending not to understand the language as the chair hovers over the edge, the wood creaking under his weight. “I don’t understand,” He begins, his eyes locking on the dark ones of the man.    
  
“Bullshit,” The man says in English before he switches back to Russian. “You understand me perfectly, Rowland. I know of your talents, I know that you speak at least five languages,”    
  
“Okay,” Ollie says, sighing. The gun is still pressed to his temple. “You’ve got me there,”   
  
“I researched you thoroughly, Mr Rowland,” The man spits, his eyes still dark.    
  
“Oh, I bet you did,” Ollie purrs, smirking as the butt of the gun presses harder into his temple. “Find anything interesting?”   
  
“Found all your personal details, where you live. Nice place in London. Educated at some posh private school, got inducted onto the MI6 programme at the age of eighteen. Very talented. Progress through the ranks...only for your records to stop six months ago. Why is that, Oliver?”   
  
Ollie smirks. “Why don’t you tell me, gorgeous?”   
  
“I’m not here to play games with you, Rowland,” The man hisses, grabbing hold of Ollie’s head, wrenching his head back, the chair still rocking over the edge, the wood creaking. “I will kill you if necessary,”   
  
“Didn’t know you were into rough play, gorgeous. I’m into choking myself, but I can see you’re more into bondage-”   
  
“Enough,” The man snaps, tugging on Ollie’s hair, gun still pressed against his head. “I’m tired of your games, I want to know why your records have been wiped, I want to know what has changed,”   
  
“Then you’ll know my excellent torture record,” Ollie says, eyes burning into the dark ones. “Though I must admit, you’re so much more attractive than the other people who have tried to get information from me,”   
  
The man grits his teeth. “I should just murder you for wasting my time, I have murdered people for less,”   
  
“Go ahead, gorgeous,” Ollie says, leaning in closer. The man’s hand tightens on his hair, his pale skin turning red with anger. “Go ahead and kill me but you’ll never get the information from me,” He smirks as the chair scrapes against the floor, the legs hovering over the hole as the man’s eyes flash black.    
  
“Don’t push me,” He spits as he pulls the gun back from Ollie’s temple. Ollie barely has time to register as he feels pain blossom across his cheek, his mouth immediately filling with blood as the man backhands him across the face with the gun. His eyes still flash as he pushes his hand away from Ollie’s hand, his leg still hooked on the chair.    
  
Ollie spits the blood out of his mouth, the dark scarlet splashes over the concrete floor but the man seems bored at the sight, he’s probably seen it many times before. “That wasn’t even a starter, Oliver,” He says, his foot still hooked on the leg of Ollie’s chair. “But then...I could just let go, watch you plunge to the floor, watch your back break,”   
  
“God, you’re making me horny with all this torture talk,” Ollie says, spitting more blood on the floor, feeling it dribble down his chin. He hopes that there’s not too much blood on his Westwood suit, the man’s dark eyes still fixed on him, the gun still pointed at him.    
  
The man growls, his feet slipping slowly away from the leg of the chair. Ollie feels his back slide back against the chair, feels the legs wobble, the wood creaking. “I will enjoy watching you fall, Oliver Rowland, you’re as ignorant as they say you are,”   
  
“My reputation precedes me. Did they mention anything about my bedroom skills-” He’s cut off by another blow to his cheek. He can feel the skin redden, the blood fills up inside his mouth - the metallic tang brushes against his tongue as he spits more blood across the floor.    
  
The man surveys him with hate-filled dark eyes. “I will enjoy watching the light leave your eyes-” Ollie feels the chair rock backwards, twists his wrists against the chair, curses the day he slept in when they were going through the training for breaking out of restraints. He closes his eyes, tries to remember the training he  _ does _ have, braces himself for the landing, only to hear another voice cut through the air.    
  
“Artem!” The voice is deep, the words are Russian.    
  
“Sergey,” The man - Artem - says quietly. “Right on time, I’m about to-”   
  
“New orders, Artem,” Sergey says to the other Russian. “Kvyat said that I am to deal with Rowland,” He’s holding his gun almost artfully, his bright blue eyes fixed on Artem.    
  
“But, I-” Artem begins with wide eyes. “I am perfectly capable,”   
  
“Yet you’re questioning orders, Markelov,” Sergey says with no trace of emotion in his voice. “Go now, before I tell Daniil about your escapades with two certain agents-”   
  
Artem surveys the taller Russian with disdain. “You wouldn’t,”   
  
Sergey says nothing else. Artem slowly lowers his gun, his foot pulling the chair back an inch. “Kvyat wants it slow and painful, wants as much information as we can. He wants the body bringing back too,” He says, sparing a glance towards Ollie.    
  
“I am aware of what Kvyat wants, Artem,” Sergey says shortly. Artem says nothing else as he moves slowly towards the door. Sergey waits for the soft footsteps to echo across the concrete, waits for the door to slam closed before he lowers his gun.    
  
“Oliver,” He says shortly.    
  
“Ser,” Ollie replies, a small smile curving over his lips, showing off his teeth reddened with blood. “Didn’t expect to see you here,”   
  
“What on earth were you thinking? Artem could have killed you,” Sergey hisses between gritted teeth as he stalks forward, pocketing his gun. “He could have-”   
  
“But he didn’t,” Ollie says, grinning. “I mean, he roughed me out a bit but I’m used to that, it was kind of like our foreplay,”   
  
The tips of Sergey’s ear turn bright red. “Oliver, don’t-”   
  
“Didn’t you miss me lubov moya?” Ollie whispers, eyes locking on the blue ones of the man before him.    
  
“You need to be more careful,” Sergey mutters, his hand sliding over Ollie’s cheek, eyes darkening at the bruises littering the lightly freckled skin.    
  
“You worry too much, I can handle myself,” Ollie begins as Sergey slowly begins to untie his wrists. He lets out a sigh of relief as the ropes pulls away from his skin, rubbing the reddened marks and ignoring the worried glances Sergey keeps throwing him.    
  
“It’s my job to worry,” Sergey says softly, his fingers dancing over the red marks on Ollie’s wrist. “I’m your husband so-”   
  
“Damn right you are,” Ollie says, grinning as his hand moves to gently pull on the gold chain barely visible underneath Sergey’s turtleneck sweater. The gold chain gently falls against Sergey’s chest, glinting in the dim light, the ring curving over Ollie’s fingers. It’s still warm from lying against Sergey’s pale skin. Sergey says nothing as he lifts the ring to his lips, pressing them against the still-warm ring of gold. “Love you husband,”   
  
“Love you too,” Sergey whispers, his fingers still moving over the marks.


	15. Boggart (Sean/Antonio, Mitch & Pierre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wardrobe looked innocuous enough. It was old; carved beautifully from dark wood, the mirrors on the front were dusty, cracked and dirty but the reflection of the class was still visible in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Harry Potter ficlet! Since everyone enjoyed the previous one so much, I thought I'd write another one, heavily based on the Boggart scene from Prisoner of Azkaban. Much love to my squad, without whom, this fic would not exist. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

The wardrobe looked innocuous enough. It was old; carved beautifully from dark wood, the mirrors on the front were dusty, cracked and dirty but the reflection of the class was still visible in them. Alex narrows his eyes, spotting that Pierre isn’t standing beside Mitch as he usually is, the small dark-haired teenager is missing. Alex is about to ask Mitch where his best friend is when Professor Ricciardo sweeps into the room, the usual smile painted on his face.    
  
“Intriguing isn’t it?” He says, grinning. “I bet you’re all thinking the same thing aren’t you? Why has Professor Ricciardo got us in this room with this wardrobe? I doubt a wardrobe would practise Dark Magic!” He steps closer to the wardrobe and taps it once with his wand. The wardrobe immediately jolts at the touch, rocking from side to side. The class immediately move back a few steps, Antonio immediately grabbing hold of Sean’s hand.    
  
“So would anyone like to hazard a guess as to what is inside the wardrobe?” Professor Ricciardo asks the class.   
  
“A Boggart,” Stoffel pipes up from the class.    
  
“Very good, Stoffel. Ten points to Hufflepuff!” Professor Ricciardo says as the wardrobe shakes from side to side. “And can anyone tell me what a boggart looks like?”   
  
“Nobody knows,” Pierre’s voice calls out, the small dark-haired Gryffindor suddenly at Mitch’s side.    
  
“When did he get here?” Alex mutters under his breath to Sean.    
  
Pierre continues. “It’s a shape shifter, they take the form of whatever a particular person fears the most, it’s what makes them so-”   
  
“Terrifying, yes,” Professor Ricciardo says with a grin. “Ten points to Gryffindor, Mr Gasly. Luckily, a very simple charm exists to repel a Boggart,” He tells the class, the banging inside the wardrobe intensifies as he stands before it. The class looks on nervously. “After me, please, riddikulus,” He says, voice clear.    
  
The class repeat the word slowly and carefully.    
  
“And once again, please,” Professor Ricciardo says.    
  
“This class is ridiculous,” Max Verstappen mutters under his breath.    
  
“However, the incantation alone are not enough to repel a Boggart.” Professor Ricciardo says, glancing back at the wardrobe as it shunts violently from side to side. “What really finishes a Boggart off is laughter. You need to force it to assume the shape of something you find amusing,” He pauses for a moment. “Who would like to go up against the Boggart for the first time?”   
  
Pierre’s hand is first in the air.    
  
“Very well, Mr Gasly, step forward and draw your wand,” Professor Ricciardo instructs as Pierre takes a deep, long breath and steps in front of the violently jerking wardrobe. The teacher moves to the side of the Gryffindor, whispering quietly into his ear. Pierre’s brow furrows as Professor Ricciardo pulls away and directs his wand towards the wardrobe door handle.  The handle slowly turns and the door slides open. The class hold their breath in anticipation. Out of the wardrobe steps Professor Alonso, he strides across the floor, his shiny black shoes hitting the wooden panels as he moves towards Pierre. Pierre pauses for a moment, his eyes wide.    
  
“Remember, Pierre, remember,” Professor Ricciardo begins but Pierre’s attention is on his head of house standing before him in his ever present long black robes.    
  
“You’ve failed everything, Mr Gasly,” Professor Alonso’s face furrows, his eyes burning into Pierre.    
  
“No!” Pierre shouts out, his wand wavering slightly. “No, I can’t, I studied so hard!”   
  
“You’re useless!” Professor Alonso continues, eyes dark, spittle flying from his mouth. “You’ll never make it as a true wizard! You’re nothing but a failure,”   
  
“That’s not true!” Pierre says, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, wand still wavering. “I-” He turns on his heel and runs out of the classroom as quickly as he can, tears still ghosting down his cheeks. Mitch watches him leave before he follows his best friend out, the only noise is that of his soft footsteps against the floor. The door closes behind them, the class still silent.    
  
“Right, very well,” Professor Ricciardo says, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. “Artem, ready to go?”   
  
The figure of Professor Alonso disappears into a giant cobra snake with glistening dark scales. Artem stiffens at his teacher’s side. “Professor, I-”   
  
“Wand at the ready, Artem,” Professor Ricciardo says calmly. “Picture changing that snake into something amusing,”   
  
Artem nods once, his dark eyes still on the snake. “Riddikulus!” He calls out, clearly, watching the snake snap back, a top hat and a monocle clinging to its shiny black scales. The class erupt into laughter as Artem smirks.   
  
“Very good, Artem. Next!”   
  
Alex steps up to the snake still wearing the top hat. It suddenly shifts into Alex himself, the class stop laughing in confusion, silence filling the room. The Alex standing before their classmate looks older, his hands are bloodstained, his hair is flecked with grey.    
  
“I killed them all, I’m the only one left, I even killed your precious Mitchell,” The boggart Alex hisses, eyes burning into Alex. “I’m you in twenty years time. I killed everyone I ever cared about...you’re just like him, just like your father,”   
  
Alex’s wand wavers for a moment before he hears Professor Ricciardo’s voice in his ear. “Remember, Alexander, it’s not real,”   
  
“Riddikulus!” Alex screams.    
  
The Alex before him changes before the class’s eyes. The black, tattered robes he’s wearing transform into a frothy bright pink dress, complete with a shining tiara in his dark hair. The class erupt into laughing howls at the sight of the straight-laced Slytherin prefect in such a strange outfit.   
  
Professor Ricciardo claps Alex on the shoulder. “Very good, Alexander, next!”  
  
Sean staggers forward, wand clasped tightly in his hand.    
  
Alex transforms into a giant spider - a black widow, with enormous legs as black as ebony and eyes staring into the Ravenclaw’s dark eyes. It looms over Sean, snapping its jaws, inching closer and closer.   
  
“Riddikulus!” Sean shouts out, barely hesitating. His wand fixes on the spider as a rollerskate appears on each leg, forcing the spider to wobble, its feet hitting the floor as it tries to stay upright.    
  
“Brilliant, Sean! Next!”   
  
Antonio steps up, looking at the spider with trepidation in his eyes. The spider slowly morphs into a shape that many of the students are familiar with, one that has been patrolling the castle for several months now. The dementor glides towards Antonio, its tattered robes floating through the air, the air turning cold around them. It’s white scabbing hands reach out in front of it, reaching out for the Ravenclaw - Antonio goes sheet white, thinks back to that night, thinks back to when he was six, when they came, when they took his father, when they left him nothing but a shell. He feels the tears sting the corners of his eyes as he remembers the light leaving his mother’s eyes, remembers screaming out their names -    
  
“Antonio!” Professor Ricciardo’s voice sinks through the vision. He blinks once as he spots that the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher is in front of him, the dementor replaced by a visage of the moon. Antonio barely has time to take a breath as the Professor waves his wand at the vision, the moon becoming a white balloon that deflates, spinning around the room. Professor Ricciardo points his wand at the balloon, directing it back into the wardrobe. It begins to rock again violently as he turns to address the class.    
  
“Right then everyone, that’s enough for today,” He says, brandishing his wand towards the door. Several of the students whine and groan under their breath as they turn on their heels, shoving their wands back into their pockets with disappointed sighs. Antonio doesn’t move, still staring into the cracked glass of the wardrobe still shaking from side to side. Sean stays by his side, his hand slowly moving to clasp over Antonio’s.    
  
“Tonio,” He says softly, his thumb tracing over the soft skin.    
  
Antonio is silent, still staring at the mirror, at himself reflected in it, tears still falling down his cheeks. Sean’s fingers continue dancing over Antonio’s, warm skin brushing over the Ravenclaw’s cold hands.    
  
“I’m sorry,” Antonio says quietly, head bowed.    
  
“Hey,” Sean mutters softly, squeezing Antonio’s hand. “I’m proud of you, for holding on as long as you can,” His thumb swipes over the soft skin. Antonio continues to glance at the mirrored wardrobe before him. Sean slides his hand into his inner pocket. Antonio furrows his brow as he hears a rustling cutting through the silence, he catches sight of a familiar bright pink wrapper in Sean’s hand. A small smile curves on his lips as Sean presses the chocolate wrapper into Antonio’s free hand.    
  
“Eat,” Sean says quietly.    
  
“I can’t, it’s your secret stash,” Antonio says, pushing it away.    
  
“It’ll make you feel better,” Sean says quietly. “And I have another five bars up in our dorm, you need to eat, I need you to feel better,”   
  
Antonio says nothing else as he accepts the chocolate again, squeezing Sean’s hand tighter, leaning into the taller Ravenclaw. “You know I can’t say no to you,”   
  


* * *

  
  
“Pierre! Wait!” Mitch calls out after his best friend, following him all all the way to the painting of the Fat Lady which guards the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.    
  
“Champion!” Pierre calls out, his voice wet and weak as the Fat Lady clucks her tongue in apology and the painting swings open as he sweeps past her without thanking her, Mitch follows him through the doorway, up the stairs to their dormitory. He watches Pierre fall onto his bed, tears falling down from his cheeks, the silence overrun by his thick, heavy sobs, his shoulders heaving with each one.    
  
“Pear,” Mitch says softly as he sits on the bed beside Pierre. “Why are you upset?”   
  
“Because I failed!” Pierre says between sobs. “I couldn’t even stop a stupid boggart! Everything it said is true!”   
  
“Hey, that’s not true at all,” Mitch replies. “You’re the smartest wizard in our  _ entire year _ . Everyone raves about you, about how you’re going to be this amazing Auror when you’re older, about how hard you work, about how you’re the only person in this year doing all eleven subjects,”   
  
“Yeah, but-”   
  
“But nothing, there’s going to be times that you fail, there’s going to be times you don’t do things on the first try,” Mitch says quietly. “But you learn from those, remember in first year? When I set the feather we were using in Charms on fire?”   
  
Pierre gives him a watery smile. “I remember, it was after that we really became friends,”   
  
“Exactly, did I give up? Did I get the train home? One mistake doesn’t define you,” Mitch says, ruffling Pierre’s hair.    
  
“You sound like me,” Pierre says, rubbing away the tears from his cheeks.    
  
“Guess I’ve been spending too much time with you eh?” Mitch jokes, ruffling his best friend’s hair again. “Stuck with my philosophical arse,”   
  
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Pierre says quietly, leaning into Mitch’s touch. 


	16. And I Will Kiss (Mitch/Alex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex needs some help. Unfortunately, only Mitch can give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sort of James Bond-sque type thing, I am a hoe for spy fic if you hadn't noticed. This particular fic is for human-ity almost (I don't know if you have ao3 but this is for you sweetie!). I used the prompt "I was fine until you showed up," and the idea of Alex being experimented on comes from a young James Bond novel called Silverfin, which draws on the idea that he's subjected to some serum making him a sort of superhuman as you see in films.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

The single lightbulb swings back and forth. Dark eyes follow each movement, the light casting shadows over the concrete floor. Alex worries his lip as his wrists rub against each other against the cool metal. He doesn’t remember much; he remembers cutting through the window, he remembers keying in the code for the safe but then it all goes a little blurry.    
  
“Alexander,” Artem’s voice crackles through his tiny earpiece - whoever tied him to the chair obviously missed the small device implanted in his ear - he sends a prayer to Artem for creating such a device. “Alexander,”   
  
“I’m here,” Alex says, his voice slightly hoarse, his lips dry. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened,”   
  
“Where are you?” Artem asks and Alex can hear the Russian’s fingers clicking frantically over the keyboard. “I can’t trace you,”   
  
“Great, they pulled out my tracker but left my earpiece in,” Alex groans, hissing as the handcuffs bite against his sensitive skin.    
  
“I’ll send in the back up,” Artem says quietly, clicking still audible on the other line. “I might be able to track you from the earpiece but oh-”    
  
“What?” Alex asks, still trying to wriggle his hands out of the handcuffs.    
  
“The back up agent is Evans,” Artem says quietly, tapping furiously. “Is that going to be an issue?”   
  
Alex worries his lip. He and Mitch broke up two months ago. It wasn’t an amicable break up - they were never like that to begin with - they were explosive at the best of times, but it hurt to see him, hurt to see him carrying on as if the three years they’d spent together hadn’t meant anything.    
  
“Alexander?” Artem’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “I can send Gasly if it’s going to be a problem, but Evans is closer-”   
  
“Send him,” Alex says quickly.    
  
He doesn’t want another conversation with Artem about his love life. He wriggles his hands, testing how much space there is in the handcuffs, his sensitive skin rubs against the cool metal as there’s a crackle in his ear, making him wince. The light continues to sway back and forth as he fights to pull his hands away from the chair. It’s not the first time he’s been in this situation - on the contrary, he’s been tied to a chair many times before - but this is the first time he’s been tied up with his ex boyfriend on the way to rescue him. And Alex Lynn is no damsel in distress. He focuses on trying to slide his wrists out, trying to get his legs free from the chair.  
  
Minutes seem to tick by as he tries to escape from the chair he’s been tied to, waiting for whoever has taken him this time to appear.   
  
“Alexander George Lynn,” A voice appears through the silence, the light continues to shake.    
  
Alex stops struggling against his bonds as his head turns towards the voice.    
  
“My, my, haven’t you grown up, it seems my experiment on you all those years ago worked,” Dr Helmut Marko appears from out of the shadows, his face gaunt, pale and twisted. “You’ve grown into a fine specimen,”   
  
“Fuck you,” Alex spits, fighting against his bonds.    
  
“It’s no use trying to escape,” Marko says, grinning widely. “Those handcuffs are reinforced steel, made to withstand your strength, Alexander,” He moves closer to the Brit, his hands moving to run against Alex’s cheek. “You were going to be my prize specimen, Alexander. If you’d just have listened and done everything I said-”   
  
“I’m not your pet, Marko,” Alex hisses, eyes narrowed.    
  
“But you are,” Marko replies, grin curving over his lips. “You always will belong to me, Alexander. No matter what Claire says to you,” His hands strokes over Alex’s cheek. Alex snarls under his breath, spitting into Marko’s face. The older man reels back, swiping the spittle away from his cheek, the twisted grin still fixed on his face.    
  
“You’ll pay for that, Alexander-” He says, eyes still fixed on the younger man. “You’ll pay greatly-” He begins, only to crumple to the floor. Mitch stands behind him, the gun he’s just used to hit Marko on the back of the head pointed at him. Alex feels the breath leave him at the sight of his ex boyfriend - he’s barely changed. He’s slightly more tanned than usual, his hair swept back from his face, his navy suit fits him like a glove.    
  
“Sorry, I’m late, ace,” He grins widely, his eyes sliding over to meet Alex’s.    
  
“You took your time,” Alex bites out, trying to avoid his gaze.    
  
“Sorry, traffic was awful,” Mitch says, sliding his gun back into his holster.    
  
“Just get me out of here,” Alex says, not caring that his tone sounds rude. Mitch cocks his head, surveying Alex carefully and making no move to untying him. “What the fuck, Evans-”   
  
“You didn’t say  _ please, _ Alexander,” Mitch teases, eyes shining.    
  
Alex feels his fingernails press into his palms, biting down on his lip as he glances at the Kiwi. “ _ Mitchell, _ ”   
  
“Say it, Alexander,” Mitch says, small smile curving over his lips.    
  
Alex sighs heavily under his breath. He knows that he can’t get out of here without Mitch’s help, he knows that he needs the Kiwi to untie him. Swallowing his breath, his dark eyes meet Mitch’s. “Please will you untie me?”   
  
The smirk on Mitch’s face intensifies as he moves closer to the Brit. “Oh, ace, I’m not sure if you mean it,”   
  
Alex bites his tongue, refrains from calling Mitch a  _ dickhead _ and pastes on his best smile, the smile that makes Pierre blush, the one that makes Artem fiddle with his glasses and say he’s got something to code, the one that’s made him insatiable to women. “Mitch, can you help me out please?”   
  
“I could never say no to that face,” Mitch says, the smirk still on his lips. 

  
He slips wordlessly into Alex’s lap, pressing his finger against Alex’s lips as the Brit protests. “I need to make sure that I have  _ access _ to the lock,” Mitch says, wiggling his eyebrows. Alex worries his lip, hoping that his cock doesn’t respond to having Mitch pressed against his thighs, the lockpicker in his fingers. Mitch leans into Alex’s chest, his breath brushing against the sliver of bare collarbone Alex’s shirt doesn’t cover.    
  
“Mitch-” Alex bites back, his tone almost breathless as he takes in the scent of Mitch’s cologne curling against his nostrils.    
  
“Just hold still, ace,” Mitch whispers against his skin, his fingers slowly brushing over Alex’s hand, the lockpick working into the lock carefully. “I’ll have you out of here in no time,”    
  
Alex feels his cock twitch at Mitch’s words and bites down on his lip as Mitch shifts slightly and feels the swollen member rubbing against his arse. The grin intensifies at the sensation underneath him, at Alex worrying his lip. “What’s wrong ace?” Mitch purrs, his lips moving to ghost over Alex’s ear. “Is there something wrong?”   
  
“Mitch-” Alex begins but he’s silenced by Mitch’s lips sealing themselves against his own. He wants to fight against the Kiwi’s touch but he feels so  _ good _ . One of Mitch’s hands fists into his thick hair, the other still grasping over his cuffed hands - Alex knows that he should rip his lips away from the Kiwi’s, these feelings are dangerous, but he can’t. Mitch’s soft, plush lips dance over his, his hand tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck, grinding down into Alex’s swollen cock.    
  
“Did you miss me, ace?” Mitch purrs against his lips, his tongue moving to tease over the crease of Alex’s, his arse dangerously close to Alex’s cock. Alex pulls himself away from Mitch, trying not to glance down at the swollen lips of his ex boyfriend.    
  
“Mitch, I-” He begins.    
  
“It’s okay if you did miss me, Alexander,” Mitch whispers, smile still clinging to his lips.    
  
“Mitch, we can’t do this-” Alex hates how weak and thready his voice is.    
  
Mitch says nothing else, his eyes locked on Alex’s as finally the lock breaks open on the handcuffs. Alex feels the metal loosen on his skin as Mitch slowly and carefully pulls them away, tossing them to one side. “Never thought I’d be the one taking you out of the handcuffs, ace,”   
  
“Mitch,” Alex says, quietly, almost like a plead. “Please,”   
  
“I never wanted this, I never wanted things to end up like this between us,” Mitch says, his eyes softening ever so slightly.    
  
“You wanted this, Mitch,” Alex replies, worrying his lip.    
  
“I did it to protect you,” Mitch says, the smile completely gone from his face. “I did it to keep you safe,”   
  
“You really gonna feed me the whole self-sacrificing bullshit Mitchell?” Alex snarls, eyes narrowed. “If you really loved me, you’d have told me-”   
  
“I do love you, I always have,” Mitch says quietly.    
  
Alex looks away. “Don’t say that, you can’t say things like that to me, Mitch,”   
  
“Why not?” Mitch asks defiantly.    
  
“You know why,” Alex says, his teeth caught between his lip. “You can’t say shit like that to me, you know what it does to me-”   
  
“I can’t lie about this, Alex,” Mitch says softly, his honey brown eyes boring into the Brit. “I can’t pretend that the feelings I have for you are gone,”    
  
Alex remains silent.    
  
“Say the words, say those four words and I’ll go,” Mitch continues. “I’ll leave your life for good,”   
  
“You know I can’t,” Alex says, his words like pleads. “You know I can’t say that,”   
  
“Why?” Mitch presses, his eyes locked on Alex’s lips.    
  
“You know why,” Alex whispers, trying not to look at the Kiwi.   
  
“I want to hear you say it,” Mitch says, eyes boring into Alex’s. “Alexander, please-”   
  
“I love you,” Alex whispers quietly, his dark eyes finally meeting Mitch’s. “I love you despite everything, despite what you’ve done-” However, his words die on his tongue as Mitch smashes their lips together once more, stealing a groan from him as his hand curves over the pale cheekbone. It feels so right kissing Mitch, feels so right to have him next to him, like they’re supposed to be together. Mitch’s lips are warm and soft against his own, his cologne curling over Alex’s nose as his fingers dance over his skin.    
  
“I love you too, Ace,” Mitch whispers against his lips.    
  
They’re not perfect, they’re not a fairytale ending. Alex is covered in dirt and Mitch’s hair is sweaty, they’re far from the Hollywood ending, far from the applause. But it’s perfect enough for them. Perfect enough to live in this moment, their chest pressed against each other, their lips connected. The hurt still remains, but with Mitch’s lips against his own, Alex is willing to forget for now.


	17. Mon Petit Requin (Pierre/Max)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre’s hand tightens around Max’s shoulder. “I’m here, mon petit requin,” He says softly as Max presses his face against the Frenchman’s chest, feeling Pierre’s heart beat slowly against his ear. “I’m here,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, “You’re so cute when you’re half asleep like this,”. For Emma who wanted some Pierre/Max after the hating today. This is for you, boo boo.

Max feels the disappointment sink into his bones as he climbs out of his Red Bull. He tried everything - he threw everything he had into the first corner, only to feel his heart sink against his ribcage. He feels the car plow into the shiny Ferrari next to him, feels the front wing crumple, feels the hopes of a podium at his home race fade away. He knows his father will be angry at him, knows that Christian will probably glance at him with disappointed eyes. Sighing heavily as he tugs on the zip of his overalls, he makes his way over to the weighing area, keeps his helmet on, keeps his visor closed from the world. He can hear the shouts of his names, he can hear the fans calling him but he can’t focus on them right now.    
  
He finds himself outside his motorhome, scraping his thin shoes against the pebbled ground. He pushes open the door and steps into the darkened room. He can just make out the large Dutch flag draped over half the blinds, can make out a pair of navy boots that don’t belong to him next to his two spare pairs of orange ones. He feels the smile ghost over his face as he slowly moves to unclip his HANS device from his helmet before pulling his helmet away. He worries his lip as the cool air of his room hits his sweaty face, his helmet thudding gently against the floor as he unrolls his balaclava.    
  
There’s a small noise from the couch in his motorhome and he just makes out the shape of someone curled up on the cushions. He feels the smile dance over his face as he slowly moves onto the couch, curling around the slighter figure. The scent of Pierre’s cologne, sweat and motor oil curves over his nostrils as his hands slide around the smaller French man.   
  
“Wha-Max? What’s going on?” Pierre’s voice is laced with sleep as he blinks his eyes open, jolts against Max’s arms.    
  
“Sorry,” Max says softly, leaning in to brush a kiss against Pierre’s soft, dark curls. “You’re so cute when you’re half asleep like this-”   
  
“Shouldn’t you be doing press?” Pierre asks sleepily. His eyes turn to glance at his boyfriend, his hand moves to brush against Max’s cheek. “You’re still sweaty-” He says with a wince.    
  
“Came straight here, just wanted a few minutes to myself,” Max says quietly, pressing his face against Pierre’s hair, breathing in the scent of his boyfriend.    
  
“Max,” Pierre says quietly. “Christian will be looking for you-”   
  
“Don’t care,” Max replies, not caring how he sounds. “They can find me, I just wanted a cuddle,”   
  
Pierre’s hand tightens around Max’s shoulder. “I’m here, mon petit requin,” He says softly as Max presses his face against the Frenchman’s chest, feeling Pierre’s heart beat slowly against his ear. “I’m here,”   
  
“Sorry,” Max says thickly against Pierre’s chest, feels Pierre’s hand curve into his short, sweaty hair, his fingernails rubbing against his scalp. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Pierre, feels the slighter body against his own - Pierre doesn’t have the muscle on him, not yet anyway - Pierre;s breath dancing against his hair as his arms fold around Pierre. “I just needed a hug,”   
  
“You did good,” Pierre says quietly, his hand still stroking over Max’s hair. “And I - mon petit cherie, am proud of you,” He says, pulling up Max’s face. Their eyes lock, as Pierre’s fingers move over Max’s cheek before he closes the gap, their lips press against each other. Max gasps against Pierre’s warm soft lips envelope his own. Pierre’s calloused fingers cradle his cheek as Max’s hands fist into Pierre’s hoodie - which feels suspiciously like one of his own Red Bull ones, Pierre has an affinity for wearing Max’s clothes after a race - his other hand twisting into Max’s short hair. Their lips move against each other lazily - Max closes his eyes as Pierre’s lips move against his own plush ones, drawing another moan from the Dutch teenager.    
  
“I missed you,” Max whispers against Pierre’s lips as Pierre smiles into the kiss, showing off the dimple in his bronzed cheek. Max loves that dimple - his tongue has danced over it many a time - his chin full of stubble scratching against Pierre’s, their noses hitting one another as the kiss deepens. Pierre’s tongue moves to tease over the crease of Max’s lips, his hands still fisted into Max’s sweaty Red Bull overalls. Max groans against Pierre’s lips, sweat still clinging to his hair as they kiss slowly, fall into each other. Pierre’s mouth moves to trace over Max’s jawline, dipping down over the light stubble before he laps at the sweat pooling on Max’s neck.   
  
“I missed you too,” Pierre whispers back, his tongue swirling over Max’s neck, teasing at the skin with his tongue. “Still a champion in my eyes,” Max groans at the sensation as Pierre’s teeth worry at the pale skin, knowing that he will leave a bruise, one that will be visible on the camera. Pierre’s teeth scrape against his skin as his hand moves to slowly pull on the zip to his overalls. Pierre almost gets the zip all the way down, his cool hands pressing inside Max’s fireproofs, eliciting a moan from the Dutchman. However, as Max feels his head fall back, Pierre’s lips still moving against his own, there’s a hurried knock at his door. Pierre pulls away, his lips still slick with saliva, his eyes locking on Max’s.    
  
“Max?” A familiar voice pipes up from behind the door. “Max? Christian needs to see you, you’re needed to do your press duties,” The warm Spanish accent curls through the air.    
  
Max curses under his breath as he reluctantly pulls away from Pierre, zipping his overalls back up. Pierre says nothing, a small smirk on his face at the darkening mark on Max’s collarbone, on the swelling in his overalls.    
  
“Don’t start,” Max says, pushing a hand through his hair as he grabs one of his hats from the side.   
  
“I’m not saying anything,” Pierre says, the smirk still clinging to his face as he watches Max move over to the door. Carlos stands on the other side, still in his Toro Rosso overalls, dark eyes roving over Max. They immediately fall on the darkening mark just visible underneath the Nomex collar.    
  
“Sorry, did I interrupt something?” He asks, spotting Pierre still curled up on the couch, hair mussed from Max’s playing.   
  
“Not at all,” Max says a little too quickly, cheeks burning with blush as Pierre chuckles from the couch. He follows Carlos away from the motorhome, ready to field the questions thrown at him. Carlos eyes the mark with interest, a small smirk on his lips at Max’s embarrassment. But Max doesn’t care about that. He knows that once the press questions are all over, he can go back to his motorhome, curl up around Pierre once more, kiss his lips again and everything will be okay.   
  
He smiles, the sun brushing against his cheeks.   



	18. Lovedrunk (Antonio/Sean)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re being boring, Seanotelli,” Antonio purrs, his voice heavy with alcohol. Sean watches the Italian press the enormous magnum to his lips again and take another gulp, the liquid runs down his chin as he pulls the bottle away. 
> 
> “And I think you’ve had enough, cicci,” Sean says fondly as he tries to pull the bottle away. However, he’s met with a pout from the skinny Italian still sitting in his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Jamie who requested drunken Antonio. I had a lot of fun with this and well, I am a hoe for Sean taking care of Antonio. Based around this weekend, when I am sure, Antonio would have been out partying and celebrating his win. Warnings for throwing up and general drunken nonsense.  
> Enjoy! :)

Sean watches Antonio carefully out of the corner of his eye, his gaze locked on the skinny Italian. He’s swaying gently to the music, his shirt slowly unbuttoning itself showing off his bare chest, the champagne Mitch had bought him is clutched gently in his fingers. Sean knows that Antonio can’t really take his alcohol, he’s always been a lightweight - Sean attributes it to his skinny frame - but he watches the Italian with some trepidation. Antonio’s arm is slung around Mitch’s shoulders, his face buried into the Kiwi’s bronzed skin, laughing at something he said. Pierre is at Antonio’s other side looking equally smashed, his blue eyes glassy as he sways from side to side, downing the rest of his magnum of champagne.    
  
A familiar song pulses through the club and Antonio’s head whips up as he cheers, throwing his hand up in the air. Sean watches the strip of tanned skin push from underneath Antonio’s tight white shirt. He tries to look away, tries to ignore Antonio’s smile, to ignore his fluffy hair falling against his forehead as the Macarena blasts out to the delight of the people on the dancefloor. Mitch cheers, a flirty grin on his face as his hands move to gently brush against Antonio’s hips. Sean watches as Antonio smiles back at the Kiwi, grinding against him, still holding the champagne bottle in his arms. His head falls against Mitch’s chest, another laugh bubbling up from his lips as Mitch’s arms fold around him. The beat continues to pulse through their chests, sweat pouring down their faces as they grind against each other to the beat, mouthing the words to one another. Sean worries his lip as he watches Mitch’s face move closer to Antonio, his hands moving to cup Antonio’s face, the Italian’s hands still resting on Mitch’s hips, pressing their cocks together - Mitch leans in, smile still curving on his lips as the pair of them lean in, his finger brushing over Antonio’s cheek - brown eyes locking on green.   
  
However, before their lips can touch, Mitch is wrenched away by an angry looking Alex Lynn. Sean watches Alex’s arm fold over Mitch’s shoulder, his eyes dark with frustration. Mitch leans his head against Alex’s chest, smiling up at the Brit. They exchange a few words, Mitch grinning as he grinds his hips up against Alex, blush immediately flooding the taller man’s cheeks. Antonio watches the pair with glassy eyes, the champagne bottle still clutched in his hand. However, he seems to feel Sean’s dark eyes resting on him. Their eyes lock and Antonio smirks at him, his hips still shifting to the bass, as he slowly moves over to his best friend. His lips are curved into a small smirk as his hand curves over his hip, the other moving to undo another button, revealing more of the slightly tanned skin hiding underneath.    
  
Sean feels his mouth go dry as Antonio sashays over to him - he’s always nursed a crush on the older Italian, even when they were teenagers sharing hotel rooms, when Sean admitted that he’d never kissed anyone before, when Antonio claimed his lips for the first time. The smirk is still on Antonio’s lips as he moves closer, his eyes dark with desire. Sean bites down on his lip as he feels Antonio slide into his lap - he steadies the skinny Italian, his arms moving to clasp Antonio around the waist as a giggle brushes over his ear.    
  
“You’re being boring, Seanotelli,” Antonio purrs, his voice heavy with alcohol. Sean watches the Italian press the enormous magnum to his lips again and take another gulp, the liquid runs down his chin as he pulls the bottle away.    
  
“And I think you’ve had enough, cicci,” Sean says fondly as he tries to pull the bottle away. However, he’s met with a pout from the skinny Italian still sitting in his lap.    
  
“You’re very boring tonight,” Antonio murmurs, shaking his head as he clings to the enormous bottle of champagne. “Thought you were supposed to be my best friend, you’re supposed to celebrate with me,”   
  
“Somebody got to look after you, Tonio,” Sean says quietly.    
  
“I can look after myself, Sean Gelael,” Antonio declares, hand still wrapped around the bottle. “I can handle my drink,”   
  
“Sure you can,” Sean says, feeling the smile dance on his lips as Antonio sways against him. “I think you’d have enough of that, Tonio,” He continues, pulling the bottle away from the Italian’s fingers. Antonio’s head falls against Sean’s shoulder, another giggle pressing past his lips. His hair feels soft against Sean’s neck, his breath barely tickling over the sensitive skin.    
  
“Tonio?” Sean says, shaking the skinny Italian who just groans against his shoulder.    
  
“I’m tired now, Sean,” Antonio mutters, his skin pale and sweaty, his glassy eyes fixed on his best friend. Sean narrows his eyes, his hand moving to brush against Antonio’s forehead.    
  
“I think it’s time we got you home,” Sean says, trying to push the worry away as Antonio remains slumped against him, shaking his head.    
  
“No, we don’t need to go home yet,” Antonio whines and Sean bites back a laugh as he pulls himself to his feet, his arm still wrapped around the Italian. Antonio remains quiet for a moment, his head resting against Sean as the taller man bundles him out of the club, away from the sweaty bodies and the bassline still pumping, nodding at Alex as he passes.    
  
“I don’t want to go home yet, Sean,” Antonio whispers as they stand outside, waiting for a taxi. “I don’t want to be boring-”   
  
“It’s three in the morning, Tonio. It’s time to go to sleep, you need to sleep off that entire bottle of champagne you’ve drank,” Sean says, shaking his head as a taxi finally pulls up next to them. Keeping his arm around Antonio, he opens the door and tells the driver the address of their apartment. Antonio remains quiet, his face lolling against Sean’s chest as Sean does up his seatbelt, tugging on it to make sure it’s secure.    
  
The journey back through London doesn’t take as long - the streets are strangely empty at this time. Sean glances down at his best friend, slumped against the seats. His hand curls around Antonio’s, as he surveys the Italian’s face. His lips are slightly parted, his eyes heavy and glassy, the dark curls falling over his forehead. Antonio is strangely quiet and there’s a curl of worry that squeezes into the bottom of Sean’s stomach at the sheen of sweat over his forehead.    
  
Antonio murmurs something, his lips twitching against the seatbelt.    
  
“What did you say?”   
  
“I forgot to hug the lamppost, it might be upset,” Antonio murmurs again and Sean fights back a laugh as the taxi eventually pulls up outside their apartment block. Throwing a twenty pound note at the driver, Sean bundles Antonio carefully out of the car and through the double doors of their apartment block.    
  
“Where are we?” Antonio asks, blinking his eyes blearily as he slumps into Sean’s shoulder, the taller man steadying the Italian as he presses the button for the fifth floor. “Are we going home?”   
  
“You’re going straight to bed,” Sean says, brushing back Antonio’s soft curls. “Can’t believe I’m looking after you,”   
  
“But I won, Sean! I beat Pierre!” Antonio slurs out, giggling once more against Sean’s shirt as the lift finally shudders to a stop.    
  
“Of course you did, champ, Ferrari will be chasing you for your number before long, cicci,” Sean says as he pulls Antonio out of the lift and down the corridor to the door to the apartment they share with Mitch. The shiny number thirty three glows in the harsh sterile light as Sean sticks his key into the door, Antonio still clinging to him as they enter the apartment. Sean watches Antonio prise himself away, staggering down the hallway and kicking off his trainers to join the pile of Mitch’s shoes that he just won’t clear away. Sean follows the tall Italian as he bypasses Mitch’s and his own room, pushing open the door to Sean’s room. Sean watches him pull away his shirt, one of the button popping off as it’s thrown haphazardly onto the floor, his ripped jeans joining the wrinkled pile on Sean’s bedroom floor. Sean tries not to glance at the bright blue boxers Antonio is sporting - the ones with the bananas on them -  and at the curve of his slightly tanned back as Antonio flops into Sean’s bed with a satisfied groan.    
  
Sean shakes his head slowly as he sheds his own shirt and jeans, picking up the clothes that Antonio has left on the floor and depositing them in the laundry basket. Usually it’s the other way around and it’s Antonio picking up after Sean, but the tall Italian sinks into Sean’s bedsheets, his mussed hair sticking up against the bright white duvet on Sean’s bed.    
  
“Knew you were ready for bed, you lightweight,” He teases gently as he slides into bed next to Antonio - he’s used to the Italian in bed next to him, the thing between them is a strange arrangement, one where Sean wakes up in the morning with the skinny Italian in his arms, messy hair tickling against his cheek.    
  
“Not a lightweight,” Antonio grumbles under his breath as he moves closer to Sean, sighing happily as his arms fold around his waist. Sean pulls the Italian closer to his chest, feels the breath dance over his bare chest. “You’re the lightweight, taking me home at three in the morning,”   
  
“Whatever you say, cicci,” Sean says, feeling his hand move to card through Antonio’s soft dark curls. Antonio glances up to his taller friend through his thick eyelashes. Sean inhales slowly as Antonio’s face moves closer, he can see the tiny gold flecks reflected in the Italian’s eyes. Antonio smirks at him before he captures Sean’s lips in a slow open mouthed kiss - Sean stiffens at the sensation, it’s not the first time they’ve kissed, they sometimes share sleepy kisses in the morning, sometimes late at night when Mitch has gone to bed. But there’s something wrong about kissing Antonio like this, when he’s pliant in Sean’s hold, alcohol still clinging to his lips.    
  
“Tonio, Tonio,” Sean says, gently pushing the older man away. “We can’t,”   
  
“You’re boring,” Antonio mutters under his breath, his lips still slick with saliva. “Boring Seany,”   
  
“And you’re drunk,” Sean says quietly, brushing back Antonio’s hair again. “I’m not taking advantage of you like that, cicci,”   
  
“What if I wanted you to?” Antonio says in an almost Mitch-like fashion.    
  
“Tough,” Sean replies, shaking his head. “Now go to sleep,” He says fondly, looking down at the skinny Italian. Antonio huffs against him, the breath dances against Sean’s collarbone as he continues to card his fingers through Antonio’s soft fluffy hair. He feels the Italian relax against him, his warm breath curving against his skin as he softly drifts into sleep. Sean feels the tiredness itch at his own eyelids, feels it sink into his bones as he follows Antonio into sleep.    
  
However, seconds barely seem to have passed before he’s awoken by Antonio jolting against him, pushing his arms away as he staggers off to the bathroom. Sean groans as he’s jostled around, trying to sink back into the dream he was having only to hear the familiar sound of someone’s knees hitting the tiles of the bathroom, pained groans filling the air. Knowing that Mitch was in Alex’s lap sucking his face off last time Sean saw him, he knows that Antonio is occupying the bathroom. Sean sighs as he leaves the warmth of his bed, his feet planting into the soft carpet as he pads out of his bedroom to the bathroom next door.    
  
“Tonio?” Sean calls out softly. “Tonio, are you alright?”   
  
However, his only response is a pained groan as he spots a figure slumped over the toilet, clinging to the porcelain. Sean feels his heart jump at seeing Antonio gripping the smooth white surface, watches as his best friend’s face turns chalk white and he empties his stomach contents into the toilet. He immediately drops to his knees, brushing back Antonio’s hair from his sweaty forehead, his other hand moving in gentle circles over the skinny Italian’s back. Antonio heaves and groans, a small sob pressing pass his lips as his body twists and fights against the sickness.    
  
“Sean-” He whispers out, his voice thready with panic.    
  
“It’s okay, I’m here,” Sean says quietly, his hand still rubbing in circles on Antonio’s back. “Told you not to drink all that champagne,”   
  
Antonio’s response is a shaky middle finger as he groans, finally slumping back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I hate throwing up,” He says in a shaky voice as Sean’s hand move to ghost over his stomach, rubbing gentle circles. Antonio lets his head fall back against Sean’s chest, closing his eyes.    
  
“I’m never drinking again,” He declares.   
  
“Until the next time you win,” Sean says in a soft tone, his lips moving to press against the Italian’s sweaty curls, his hand still rubbing circles over Antonio as though to soothe. “Do you feel like you need to throw up again?”   
  
Antonio shakes his head as he lays, slumped against Sean. Sean’s lips still kissing his hair. “I’m fine here, got my superhero,”   
  
Sean laughs at Antonio’s words as he continues to stroke over the skinny Italian’s skin. “You’d crash and burn without me, Giovinazzi,” He jokes but Antonio doesn’t say anything back, just rests his head against Sean’s chest, allows his fingers to work their magic. Sean’s happy to enjoy the silence, his lips still pressed against Antonio’s hair. 


	19. Kiss Me (Sergey/Ollie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes, he did, nobody else matters on the track except Oliver Rowland, isn’t that right, Serge?” Artem hisses, eyes fixed on his fellow Russian. “You ruined my race, you ruined my chances at those final points all because you wanted your little boyfriend to feel better-”
> 
> Oliver helps Sergey over the bad weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Emma, who is probably a bigger Rowkin slut than myself. This is based over what happened this weekend when Sergey decided to park his car into the back of Artem's. Warnings for well, this weekend and for making out and dicks. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Sergey presses a hair through his hair, fighting back the tears. The memories of Monaco flash before his eyes, the crumpled nose of his car deep into the barriers. He remembers folding himself onto his racing engineer, remembers the tears that fell down his cheeks, thought about how angry his father was going to be. It was a stupid thing to do, he thinks. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He remembers seeing Oliver’s car sweep down to his left, remembers seeing the back of Artem’s Russian Time car for a moment. The next moment however, he’s spinning on the tarmac, watching Artem’s finger flip up to him. He feels the tears gather in the corner of his eyes as he feels his car slow to a halt, sees the damage to Artem’s car. This weekend wasn’t his at all - he had gone into it, trying not to think about his postponed birthday celebrations, tries not to think about Pierre on the top step yesterday.    
  
It hurts waiting outside the steward’s room, knowing that everyone will be watching him, knowing that Artem will be there. He’s ushered into the room quickly, feels  Sébastien’s  hand close over his shoulder and fights the tears away. He knows he has to get out of the habit of crying, has to get out of the habit of letting his emotions in. Artem enters the room, his eyes dark and angry, flanked by  Svetlana and by his racing engineer. He collapses into the chair, completely blanking Sergey.    
  
“Can we get the fuck on with this?” Artem says, leaning back in his chair, picking at one of his fingernails. “I have a hot shower waiting for me and I can’t be bothered with these excuses to hear,”   
  
“Artem,” Svetlana says quietly. “You know we will get nowhere with that attitude,”   
  
“Well, I don’t get anywhere driving like a maniac,” Artem mutters under his breath, glaring at Sergey. “Just because my boyfriend is in front,”   
  
“The crash was nothing to do with Oliver!” Sergey spits out, feeling his cheeks heat up.    
  
“It was everything to do with  _ Oliver _ !” Artem spits back. “If it had been anyone else’s car, you would have hit them and not me,”   
  
“Artem, Sergey didn’t target you in particularly-” Svetlana cuts in but Artem shakes his head, eyes still burning.    
  
“Yes, he did, nobody else matters on the track except Oliver Rowland, isn’t that right, Serge?” Artem hisses, eyes fixed on his fellow Russian. “You ruined my race, you ruined my chances at those final points all because you wanted your little boyfriend to feel better-”   
  
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Sergey roars, his cheeks bright red, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. “He’s got nothing to do with this, I made a mistake and I hold my hands up and admit it!”   
  
“Sergey, it’s okay,”  Sébastien says quietly. “You don’t need to explain yourself to them, just to the stewards,”   
  
“It was a stupid thing to do, I just panicked and thought about how Pierre was going to wipe out my lead and I-”   
  
“So you just decide to hit me and fuck up my race? Brilliant, thanks Serge, thanks for nothing,” Artem says, his voice rising once again.    
  
“What do you want me to do? I can’t go back in time and stop myself from hitting you!” Sergey roars back, tears glittering in his eyes.    
  
“Don’t cry about it Sirotkin!” Artem hisses, his eyes dark with anger. “Why don’t you go fuck Oliver? That will make you feel better won’t it? Like you were just before the start of the race-”   
  
The room goes silent. Sergey says nothing else as he stands up, the chair scraping back against the floor as he stalks out of the room. He can hear Sébastien’s cries behind him, pleading with him but he knows that it’s all his fault. He let his emotions get in the way, had a moment where he just saw Oliver’s car and stopped. He stalks through the paddock, ignoring the shouts of the few journalists who want to speak to him. Ignoring the ART motorhome looming ahead, he bypasses it to head over to the MP one, immediately spotting the person he’s looking for. Oliver is leaning against the wall of the motorhome, glancing down at his telemetry with a furrowed brow.    
  
Sergey remains silent as he snags Oliver’s wrist and tugs him inside the motorhome, slamming the door shut behind him. He barely notices the British flag that is hung up in Ollie’s room, barely notices his racing boots kicked off in a messy pile as he slams the shorter Englishman up against the door.    
  
“Serge, what the fuck-” Oliver begins, only to be cut off by Sergey’s lips. He whines into the kiss as Sergey’s body folds against his own, his tongue tracing over the crease of Oliver’s lip. Sergey’s hands pin Oliver’s against the door as his lips smash into the British man’s, his knee moving to press between Oliver’s thighs. Oliver whines against Sergey’s lips, the Russian’s body folding over his own.    
  
“I need you,” Sergey whispers against Oliver’s lips. “I need you, Ollie,” He mutters as he pushes Ollie’s hands above his head, presses his chest against the Brit, feels him breathe out slowly. Ollie surveys him from beneath dark eyelashes, his pupils are blown.    
  
“Serge,” He breathes out from between swollen lips. Their eyes meet for a moment - pale blue on the darker blue, Sergey’s fingers still pressed against Oliver’s wrist. “Serge, it’s okay,”   
  
“I just-” Sergey whispers, his lips dancing over the corner of Oliver’s mouth, down over the freckles to trace over his jawline. Oliver whines at the sensation as Sergey’s mouth dips over his jawline, down to lap at the sweat glittering on the pale skin of his neck. The salt explodes against his tongue as his tongue moves over Oliver’s collarbone. The Brit’s head falls back against the door with a dull thud, his mouth falling open as Sergey’s tongue laps at the hollow of his neck before he bites down on the freckled, pale skin.    
  
“Holy shit, Serge,” Oliver whispers out, his eyes falling shut as Sergey’s teeth scrape over his skin, worrying at the freckles. He pauses, his tongue brushing over the sensitive and reddened skin afterwards as though to soothe it. Sergey smiles against the skin as he feels Oliver’s cock swell against him.    
  
“Oliver,” Sergey whispers against the pale skin, tongue tracing over the freckles slowly. “Oliver, I need you,” He mutters, pushing himself against Oliver, his fingers moving over the Brit’s wrists. He mouths at the skin again, eliciting another groan from Oliver. He glances up at the Brit, at the man he’s falling in love with, at the messy dark hair falling over his forehead. His blue irises are barely visible, his lips swollen from Sergey’s kisses, still slick with saliva.    
  
“What?” Oliver asks, quirking an eyebrow.    
  
“You’re beautiful,” Sergey mutters as he surges forward, their lips slipping against each other again. Oliver smiles into the kiss as Sergey’s tongue slips into his mouth, his knee still pushing between Oliver’s thighs, feeling his cock brush against his racesuit. He knows that he’s still wound up from the events of the race, but Oliver is happy to placate him, his lips brushing over Sergey’s. Sergey can taste the salt dancing over his tongue, the trace of the energy drink that Oliver had this morning to perk himself up. Their tongues move together, the only sound is that of their wet lips hitting one another, of the low moan Sergey draws from Oliver’s throat. One of Sergey’s hands moves slowly down Oliver’s body, tugging gently on the zip of his race suit. Oliver pants against Sergey’s mouth.    
  
“Serge, please-” He mutters as Sergey’s hand tugs the zip down to his belly button, his warm hands curving inside the fireproofs. Oliver stiffens at the touch, his mouth falling open as Sergey’s hand brushes past his boxer shorts. Sergey grins against Oliver’s skin, nipping at the pale freckled collarbone of the Brit, his hands moving over the soft skin of Oliver’s abdomen. His hands trace over the dark blonde hair growing under Oliver’s belly button, down towards his pubic bone. Oliver’s head falls back against the door as Sergey’s hand curves around his hardening cock, his lips parting around the Russian’s name.    
  
“Oh god, Sergey,”   
  
“Tell me what you want,” Sergey whispers, his fingers teasing over Oliver’s cock, the pre-come sweet and slick against his thumb.    
  
“Fucking hell, Sergey,” Oliver mumbles out and Sergey has always loved this, has always loved when Oliver begins to lose control - his cheeks flush bright red, his mouth drops open and he becomes placid against Sergey’s hold. Sergey feels Oliver arch into his touch, pupils blown, pleads pressing from his lips. “Sergey, I need you to touch me-”   
  
Sergey grins, his hand moving to slowly begin tugging on Oliver’s swollen dick, the Brit arches against him, his mouth wide open as Sergey’s fingers glide up and down, smearing pre-come over his aching cock. However, as Oliver’s about to scream out Sergey’s name, curse his teasing fingers, a knock interrupts their heaving breaths.    
  
“Stop shagging in there,” Artem’s voice cuts through the silence. Oliver groans against the door, Sergey’s hand still on his cock.    
  
“Ignore him,” Sergey whispers against Oliver’s ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin as he nips at his earlobe, his fingers still teasing Oliver. The Brit’s breathless sighs tear through the air as another knock shakes the door.    
  
“Stop ignoring me Sirotkin!” Artem calls out, this time in angry Russian. “You can shag Oliver later, we need to talk,”   
  
Oliver closes his eyes. “You’re kidding me,”   
  
“Sergey, get your cock out of Oliver and open this door now,” Artem continues and Oliver furrows his brow, unaware of what Artem is saying. Sergey sighs heavily as he slowly pulls his hand away from Oliver’s cock, the Brit whines at the lack of contact but Sergey soon silences him with a kiss.    
  
“I’ll make it worth your while,” He whispers against Oliver’s lips. Oliver kisses back with equal fervour, fondness evident in his blue eyes as he reluctantly zips up his overalls and pushes a hand through his hair. “Go and talk to Markelov, don’t kill each other,”   
  
Sergey smiles as he presses another kiss to Oliver’s lips. “Of course, babe,”


	20. Afraid (Antonio/Pierre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre thought he’d got over crushing on his teammate when Alex turned up at the end of year party with his hand clasped in Mitch Evans’s and he felt his heart drop like a stone. However, the ink on his new Prema contract was barely dry when he first locked eyes with Antonio Giovinazzi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was written for Chesca who requested, well, she wanted Antonio/Pierre due to their shenanigans this weekend but it ended up being Sean/Antonio and Max/Pierre instead. Sorry love. It's a bit of a strange fic, I wanted to do something different with my writing but I'm not sure if I've pulled it off.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Pierre thought he’d got over crushing on his teammate when Alex turned up at the end of year party with his hand clasped in Mitch Evans’s and he felt his heart drop like a stone. However, the ink on his new Prema contract was barely dry when he first locked eyes with Antonio Giovinazzi. He felt himself groan internally as the skinny, tall Italian flashes him a lopsided grin and holds out a small hand. Pierre feels something warm sink into his chest at Antonio’s smile but he thinks back to the year before, at DAMS - when he watched Alex during testing, when Alex would stroke the back of his hand after a bad race, when they kissed at the Christmas party in the taxi back to Alex’s flat, sloppy, Alex’s stubble scratching against his face. He tries to keep Antonio at arms length - he really does, tries to push him away but Antonio still manages to crawl into his life. In Hungary, they end up having dinner together with the rest of the team - Pierre is used to this sort of thing, they did it all the time at DAMS - but he can’t stop staring at the skinny Italian opposite, at the tight white t-shirt hugging his slight muscles, at the slip of tanned skin visible where his shorts have ridden up. Pierre brushes away the thoughts of Alex, of when he would stare at the tall Brit across the table, glimpse at his freckles dancing over the pale skin, over his lips poised against the wine glass. Antonio smiles at him the entire time, the small smile that he gives everyone, his hand constantly around his wine glass.   
  
He ignores the thought of Antonio as he slides into his bed later that night - he tells himself he doesn’t miss Max, that he doesn’t miss the sex they used to have as his hand finds his half-swollen dick. He lets out a breathy sigh as he strokes over his own shaft, pretending that it’s Antonio’s hand caressing him. He pretends that the skinny Italian is next to him in the bed, pretends that Antonio is wanking him off, that his voice is whispering things in his ear, ragged sighs brushing over the sensitive skin. Pierre stifles a groan as he smears pre-come over the shaft of his cock, tries to think about what Antonio would feel like around it - if he’d scream, if he’d arch his back, if he’s fucked anyone else on the grid.   
  
“Antonio,” The name expels from his lips in a breathy sigh, barely audible as he closes his eyes, feels the orgasm build over his lower thighs. He imagines the Italian’s hand on his cock, imagines the small smile ghosting over his face as he comes against his hand with a shudder. He lies back in the pillows, hand still curved around his softening dick. He thinks about Max - thinks about how Max used to scramble under the covers, used to take his cock into his mouth, used to deepthroat it between those plush lips of his and he groans again. He shouldn’t think about Max, or Antonio for that matter. He flops back against the cushions, his sweaty hair still sticking to his forehead.

  
  
He continues to pine over Antonio deep into the summer months, watches with jealousy as he watches the Instagram photos of Antonio curled up next to Sean and Mitch on the jetty wearing nothing but a pair of thin white swimshorts. He hates feeling this way, hated it when Carlos posted that photo of Max curled up on his shoulder, before he found out that he and Dany were heavily involved with one another. He hated it when Mitch bloody Evans commented in every single photo of Alex shirtless, thought if he heard the word ‘ace’ one more time he might delete his social media pages altogether. However, Antonio returned home a few days early for Prema meetings with a tan and a wide smile. He smiles back at Pierre as they sink back into the races after the summer break, sink back into focusing on securing good results for the team. Belgium comes and goes. Pierre has to pretend that he’s happy that Antonio took the pole away. He tugs off his gloves, tries not to think about Marko’s warning as Antonio folds him into a hug. Pierre has to stand on the podium next to Alex the next day, look at the man he thought he loved - smiling up at him in his tight overalls. They pour the champagne over each other, laugh at each other’s jokes. It’s nice to pretend, pretend that things are like they used to be - Pierre knows that a certain Kiwi will be watching the screens back at the Campos motorhome with pride, knows that Alex will head back there and they’ll have loud sex again - he’s heard the Campos team talk about it as though it’s a legend.   
  
The day after, he’s not on the podium. Antonio is though. Pierre watches him from the screens, watches the skinny yellow-overalled man get soaked with champagne and feels the knot in his stomach. He watches Antonio’s wide smile, watches the discomfort on his face as Luca pours the champagne over his face, soaking into his cap. Pierre feels his cock swell against his overalls at the sight and turns away, biting his lip. He tries to busy himself looking at his telemetry from the race, tries to see where he could have done to improve his chances but his eyes skim back to the screen where Antonio is standing, beaming and holding up his trophy covered in champagne. Pierre pushes away the urges to slide his hands down his overalls and ghost them over his dick - he’s an adult, he doesn’t have such urges, he can control himself.   
  
Yet at the party that night, after a few bottles of beer and countless glasses of champagne, Pierre’s sense of control seems a little hazy. He watches Antonio across the room, his eyes glassy, hair falling in his face as he giggles. Pierre worries his lip, downing the rest of the champagne in his hand - he knows it’s dangerous being out when he’s so intoxicated, thinks back to when he snogged Alex at the Christmas party but before he realises, he’s staggering over to Antonio, his glass empty.   
  
“Antonio,” He slurs out and the Italian’s dark green-blue eyes focus on him.   
  
Antonio gives him the smile again - the one that makes Pierre’s dick stir in his ripped jeans and Pierre feels a groan as the Italian envelopes him in a hug, his skinny wrists ghosting over Pierre’s neck.     
  
“We did well, no?” Antonio whispers, breath ghosting against Pierre’s skin. “We will make Prema world champions by the end of the season!” He declares, his glassy lips locking on Pierre’s.   
  
“Of course,” Pierre whispers, gazing into Antonio’s eyes, smiling back at the Italian. The familiar feelings come rushing back to him - he leans in slowly but Antonio doesn’t move. Pierre decides to just go for it - their lips collide together - and Pierre knows it’s nothing like kissing Alex. Antonio’s lips are warm and slightly chapped, wet from the alcohol he’s been drinking that sinks against Pierre’s tongue. Pierre feels his eyes slide shut, thinks nothing of Max and his plush lips, thinks nothing of Alex’s tongue as his lips move over Antonio’s. However, after what seems like only a few seconds, he’s pushed away. Antonio glances at him with hurt eyes, his chest heaving up and down.   
  
“Pierre, we can’t do this, I’m not-”   
  
Pierre feels his stomach drop, prepares for Antonio’s speech about how he’s not gay, about how he’s snogged Mitch a couple of times - but who hasn’t, everyone has snogged Mitch once in their lives - but Antonio surveys with hurt in his eyes.   
  
“I don’t think about you in that way, I’m sorry,”   
  
It hurts more than Pierre anticipated. It hurts more than when he saw Alex’s hand curl around Mitch’s after a race, hurts more than when Max packed his suitcase and left. He wants to ask, he wants to know if there was ever a chance, he knows that it’s wrong, knows that he should let it go but he can’t.   
  
“Is there someone else?” He hates that line. They’re not even in a relationship and he’s acting like some jealous boyfriend with some possession over Antonio. Antonio however, turns sheet white at the words, his teeth worrying his lip.   
  
“I...I, no, there’s nobody else-” Antonio says, eyes still wide. However, Pierre watches him carefully, notices his gaze across the room and suddenly, everything makes sense. The holiday in Indonesia, the closed off stance employed until Mitch climbed off the plane. Antonio is in love himself, but not with Pierre, he’s in love with -   
  
“Sean. You’re in love with Sean,” Pierre whispers.   
  
Antonio’s cheek turn bright red. “I’m not in love with him,”   
  
Pierre knows that he should feel awful, he knows that he should feel like his heart is breaking but he cannot bring himself to feel this way. He knows Sean - he knows that he and Antonio have known each other for a long time. He knows that he can’t interfere with that. He smiles gently at Antonio, slaps him softly on the shoulder and gives him a knowing smile before he leaves the party. It’s not until he’s home in his bed that the feelings twist in his gut - that the hurt fills his chest. He finds himself pulling out his phone, hovering over Max’s number. He wonders if he should take the chance. He thinks about Antonio still staring across the room at Sean and presses the call button.   
  
It’s now or never.   
  
“Hello?” Max’s voice pipes up through the speaker.


	21. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie offers to stay with Antonio, only for things to start going wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is built into mine and my wives' wolf universe but I didn't want to place it with my other fics. As every fic in this universe, there's no set time period, this is set later than my other "Howl" fics. Richie is still a banshee and Antonio is still a beta. Warning for Game of Thrones episode 6x3. 
> 
> This is a belated birthday gift for theboastalot who is a lovely lovely person. Many thanks to Amy for providing Game of Thrones references and to Jamie for cheerleading. Love you all. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Richie _hates_ pack meetings. He hates them more than anything, hates watching other wolves look down on him, look down on Antonio because of what they are. He hates the stares, the whispers that he’s not a real wolf, that he rejected his bite, that he’s not worthy to be part of the black wolves’ pack, not worthy to be the white wolves’ mate. Antonio never has to go to the meetings as per Fernando’s request - the young beta cannot deal with that many different scents in one place. It’s also for his own protection. Despite the golden mark claiming him as one of Alex’s packmates, the other wolves still view him as an omega, they still view him as below them. Sean is working late at the clinic tonight - Fernando having to be the chair at the wolves meeting - and there’s nobody to look after Antonio. It’s one of the pack’s golden rules - Antonio is not to be left alone. The one time that he was left on his own, Alex had returned to the house to see Antonio quivering in a corner, hair mussed with dark, haunted eyes.    
  
“I thought you’d gone,” He had whispered from between cracked and bleeding lips.    
  
He was never left alone after that. Usually, Sean was around to cuddle up to the small wolf and the pack would come home to find the pair curled up on the sofa under the red blanket printed with owls, Antonio’s face pressed against Sean’s chest, the taller teenager’s fingers in the dark brown curls. However, with Sean busy at the clinic, Artem had offered to stay behind with Antonio. But Ollie had glared at him - it was frowned upon for betas to miss meetings.    
  
“But Antonio is more important,” Artem had argued.    
  
“The Council are already riding my ass about territorial matters, Artem. I’m not giving them any more ammunition,” Ollie had narrowed his eyes, arms folded.    
  
“I’m here,” Richie’s voice breaks through the tension. The banshee doesn’t usually concern himself with pack matters - he’s happiest in his room watching his television shows curled under his duvet. “I can stay here with Antonio. My kind are not welcome at the meeting either,”   
  
Two pairs of scarlet eyes had fallen on him, gazes unwavering. “Richie, are you sure-”   
  
“I’m certain, we’ll be fine,” Richie had said, holding his hands up as though to protest. “I’m not going out tonight, I’m watching my shows,”   
  
Alex had nodded once slowly. “I’ll try get home early-”   
  
“Alex, I’m not a fucking child, neither is Antonio. We’re perfectly capable,” Richie had muttered as Alex had ignored his words completely.    
  
“I’ll make sure to draw up extra protection sigils before I leave. I need you both safe,” Alex’s eyes had flashed darker for a moment. Richie had resisted the urge to sigh. Alex was so overprotective sometimes.    
  


* * *

  
The alpha had drawn the sigils about five times before he’d finally left, Pierre dragging the older alpha away by the sleeve of his jacket as Antonio had giggled. Richie found himself curled up on their pit sofa, snuggled amongst the several fluffy cushions, a blanket that he’s certain is Pierre’s - due to the pandas printed on it - wrapped over his legs. There’s a large bowl of popcorn at his side and he’s sinking into the soft cushions as he turns on the television, ready for Game of Thrones. It’s his favourite television show - the one he’s been binge watching on Netflix with Sean whilst the rest of the pack are in wolf mode.    
  
Antonio disappears up the stairs - presumably to sleep on his and Sean’s bed - Richie can hear the door gently close, can feel the warmth of his and Antonio’s bond, the fondness that rolls between the thread. He reaches into the bowl and his fist curves around a handful of popcorn. Stuffing it into his mouth, he feels the salty flavour burst over his tongue as the credits pop up. He listens out for Antonio, feels his way over the bond - but it’s calm and quiet and after a few minutes, Richie’s trained ear picks up the sound of Antonio’s gentle breathing. It’s strange for Antonio to sleep alone - but he’s been having nightmares recently, nightmares that shake the whole house awake, that make Alex tear out of his bedroom to find Antonio sobbing against Sean. Richie had assumed that Antonio would seek him out, that the small wolf boy would come down the stairs and curl up against his chest. But Antonio seems to be sleeping soundly - Richie puts it down to the lack of sleep, that the werewolf is simply so tired, he’ll sleep anywhere.    
  
Richie continues to eat his popcorn, his eyes locked on the television screen.    
  


* * *

  
He’s almost halfway through the episode when he feels Antonio’s bond shake and quiver - he shoots upright, his brow furrowing as he picks up the slight thread of panic running down the bond, seeping down the stairwell. He knows that Antonio is awake - the slow, calm breathing is replaced by rapid, hurried breaths as the small werewolf fights to take air in. Richie tries to remain calm, he fights the urge to fly up the stairs - sometimes it is easier to allow Antonio to come to you - as he strains his ears. He finally hears the ragged breathing again, the shuffle of Antonio’s socked feet against the carpet as he descends the stairs.    
  
Richie feels his breath ghost out in relief as Antonio appears into view, hovering in the doorway. He’s wrapped in his favourite blanket - the red owl one - softly draping around his shoulders, his dark brown hair is mussed and messy. His eyes flash between gold and green as they fix on Richie, his lip caught between his teeth.    
  
“Rich-” He begins and Richie pushes the bowl of half-eaten popcorn away as he lifts his arm up, inviting Antonio to shuffle in. The small werewolf does so - bouncing onto the sofa and flopping against Richie. Richie smiles as he strokes over Antonio’s hair gently - like he’s seen Sean do - watches the skinny Italian melt against him. His fingers gently card through Antonio’s hair as he offers up the bowl of popcorn with the other hand. Antonio declines with a wrinkle of his nose which makes Richie burst out laughing, unable to hold his giggles in. The taller teenager huffs against him in an almost wolf-like fashion as Richie snags another handful of popcorn.    
  
“I can smell the salt,” Antonio mutters against his chest. “How much did you put in?”   
  
“Enough,” Richie says thickly between his mouthful. He gazes at the television, to where Ramsey Bolton is on the screen, eyes blazing. He’s not sure if Antonio would appreciate Game of Thrones - he knows enough about the beta to know that he’s still uncertain over television shows, unable to recognise that they are just fiction. He’s about to grab the remote and change the channel - he can always watch the rest of the episode in bed with Ollie on Netflix but Antonio’s green eyes catch him.    
  
“Don’t change it because I’m here,” Antonio says softly, still snuggled up against Richie.    
  
“But Tonio-” Richie begins, only to be met with Antonio’s warm, green eyes bearing up at him. “It’s not something-”   
  
“I can handle it,” Antonio murmurs. “I’m not a child,”    
  
Richie opens his mouth to argue but Antonio whines under his breath - it’s almost wolf-like, his green eyes burning into Richie’s. Richie relents and places the remote back onto the arm of the sofa, leaning back into the cushions as his hand finds Antonio’s hair, fingers carding through the soft curls once more. Antonio settles against him as Richie continues to watch the show, eating the popcorn and licking the salt from his fingers. He can feel Antonio’s heartbeat, slow and steady against him - until it stutters, speeding up ever so slightly at first -    
  
“It’s okay,” Richie whispers, carding his hand through Antonio’s hair. “It’s not real,”   
  
However, as the words leave his lips, Jon Umber throws a direwolf head down onto the table, blood dripping from the hook impaled in it and Richie feels Antonio’s heart slam against his chest, his face paling as his fingernails curve into Richie’s biceps.    
  
“Wha- what-” Antonio stutters out, his eyes flashing gold. “Why is-”   
  
“It’s not real,” Richie whispers, his hand stroking over Antonio’s back, trying to cuddle the wolf closer to him. “It’s just a television show-” He murmurs, trying to soothe Antonio. The beta’s eyes are locked on the screen, on the wolves’ head, the black fur, that looks so much like -    
  
“Alex-” Antonio whispers out, brokenly. “Alex-”   
  
“It’s not Alex,” Richie tries to reassure the small beta but can feel the panic flowing through him, can feel him wanting nothing more than to shift, to howl out for his alpha. He clings onto Antonio, onto the bond they share as it wobbles precariously. He knows that Antonio is in danger of becoming rabid, of being unable to calm himself down. Richie can hear his heartbeat, can hear his heart slamming against his ribs as he tries to pull in a breath, tries to steady himself. He tries not to think about the panic twisting through the air, moving through the bond they share. He knows that Alex will feel his beta’s panic, tries to push reassurance through the bond towards Alex as his hands ghost over Antonio’s skin.    
  
“Alex, what if he’s - he’s a black wolf, what if the hunters-” Antonio whimpers, tears falling down his cheeks.   
  
“He’s safe, he’s safe, can’t you feel him through your bond?” Richie soothes, stroking over the quivering beta, trying to press his calm into Antonio’s skin.    
  
“I- I c-can’t feel anything!” Antonio whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut. Richie winces as his fingernails shift before his eyes, ripping into his pale skin. Pebbles of red form over white as Richie pleads down the bond to Antonio, watches his eyes snap open drifting between gold and green.    
  
“You’re okay, you’re safe. It’s not real, it’s just - the wolf isn’t real, it’s made from a computer,” Richie whispers, feeling the hurt filter down the bond. His heart stings. He made Antonio feel this way - he knows that Alex surely will be on his way home by now.    
  
“But...it could be Alex, that could happen to Alex-” Antonio murmurs, his eyes glowing gold as he sags against Richie, trying to fight away his urges to shift. “He’s a black wolf,”   
  
“He is,” Richie whispers, stroking Antonio’s hair. “And you know what that means? He’s a black wolf, he’s one of the most powerful wolves I’ve ever known,”   
  
“But he’s not invincible,” Antonio mutters, voice still shaky.    
  
“But he’s powerful and he’s surrounded by friends and family. He has Fernando. The most powerful wolf in the district,” Richie murmurs, pressing his calm into the beta. Antonio shudders against his chest, tears still pouring down his cheeks. Richie feels his heart break at the feeling of Antonio shivering against him, his pain seeping into every pore of his skin. Antonio’s heart is still jumping like a jackhammer, his skin still pale as Richie slowly strokes over his hair.    
  
“Tonio, you’re okay,” He soothes, his arms grasping the beta against his chest, hands brushing over soft skin. Antonio continues to quake in his arms - Richie can feel the dull ache, the pain threading through his bones. He probes the bond, sinks all the reassurance he can down the thread that is their bond - his arms still folded around the quivering Antonio.    
  
Fear and panic still lingers in the air.    
  


* * *

  
  
Alex feels the panic ripple through his beta’s bond halfway through Toto’s boring speech on policing the borders of their territory. Antonio’s fear and panic for Alex filters through the bond, lighting up the strands in Alex’s head. He tries to push back some reassurance, some calmness - certain that the beta is just missing Sean or himself but it’s lost in a wave of hurt, pain and Antonio repeating his name -  _ Alex, Alex, Alex _ \- over and over.    
  
He catches Ollie’s eye - the alpha is sitting next to him looking bored by Toto’s words, but his eyes flash for a moment as they lock on Alex’s. Ollie senses the pain and worry that floods across Alex’s face and wordlessly pull the pad that he was making notes in towards him, nodding at the door.    
  
_ Go. I will make notes. Go and see to your beta.  _ Alex knows it’s not normal - it’s not normal for wolves to converse this way in their human forms, but Antonio’s worry and panic is overwhelming him at that moment. The chair he’s sitting on scrapes across the concrete floor as he sits up. A few of the older alphas cast him disapproving glares but he ignores every single one - focusing on the only senior alpha that matters.    
Fernando meets his gaze, his brown eyes boring into the younger alphas before he nods once, almost imperceptibly.  Alex leaves after that - his footsteps echoing against the concrete as he breaks into a run, the panic from his beta still clinging to every inch of him, making him hiss in pain.    
  
It doesn’t take long to get back to the pack house. Though time seems to slow down as he runs through the forest, trying to soothe Antonio, to probe the bond between them as the branches catch on his chest, the thorns tear at his cheeks. None of that matters, though. He is only invested in Antonio, on reaching his beta, on making sure that he’s safe. He reaches the edge of their territory - feels the comfort brush over him for a moment. None of his sigils have been disturbed. It’s a good sign. But he still runs quickly, his heart slamming against his ribcage as their house swings into view before his eyes. He can sense Antonio’s panic heavy in the air as he pushes the door open, follows the scent of terror into the lounge, only to stop at the sight before him.    
  
He was expecting Antonio alone, quivering in a ball. But the skinny beta is wrapped up in Richie’s arms - the banshee looking pale and slightly terrified, his hands brushing through Antonio’s hair. Alex feels a whine pull from his throat at the sight of his betas, at the sight of Antonio so panicked, tears falling down his cheeks and his chest heaving for every breath.    
  
“Tonio-” He whispers out.    
  
Antonio stiffens against Richie as his eyes slowly open - they’re a mixture of both the green and the gold Alex notes - as he stares at Alex in disbelief.    
  
“A-Alex,” Antonio replies, his mouth falling open as he blinks, the colours in his eyes drifting together in a kaleidoscope. “Y-you - you’re here,”   
  
“Little wolf,” Alex says gently as he steps forward, toeing his shoes off as he moves closer to his packmate, to his beta - he slides onto the sofa pit, immediately pressing up against Antonio, still slumped against Richie. Antonio smiles softly as Alex’s skin brushes against his own, as his alpha’s hand moves to cup his cheek, wiping away the tears from his skin.    
  
“I’m okay,” He whispers, soaking in everything from the bond between them. “I’m okay,” He murmurs as he takes one of Antonio’s hands and places it gently over his chest, allowing the beta to feel his heart thumping against his chest. The silence falls over the trio - Richie still cradling Antonio in his arms, Alex pressed into the other side, his hand threaded with his betas.    
  
“I’m sorry,” Richie mutters as the silence overwhelms him. “He was watching Game of Thrones with me and well, he saw one of the dead wolves and it looked like you and-”    
  
Alex winces at the guilt coming off Richie.    
  
“It’s okay,” He mutters softly. “It’s not your fault,” He continues, smiling as Antonio’s fingers stroke over his chest. He can feel the beta slowly begin to calm down, begin to sink against Richie’s chest in exhaustion and overexertion.    
  
“You’re safe, little wolf,” Alex whispers under his breath, his thumb stroking over Antonio’s as the beta’s eyes slowly begin to close. “You’re safe with us, I’m safe,”   
  
“And Sean?” Antonio mutters, brow furrowed.    
  
“Sean’s safe too,” Alex soothes, his voice soft and gentle as he leans in and presses a kiss against the mussed curls, sharing a smirk with Richie. The banshee remains silent, still wrapped around Antonio providing a wordless but secure support for the vulnerable beta. Alex is thankful for him - thankful for the support he’s given. He sends his thanks through his bond to Richie and is met with a warm smile. Antonio sags further against Richie as his hand slips away from Alex’s chest, his eyes closing as the panic twisting between his bonds finally stops. Richie is the next to follow the beta into sleep, his face slumping against Antonio’s, his nose nestling in the rich dark curls. Alex watches his packmates sleep and tries to stay awake, blinking back the tiredness from his eyes. He manages to stay awake for an extra twenty minutes before he gives up the flight, slumping against the cushions, still curled around Antonio protectively.    
  
It’s not until Sean returns home from work a few hours later, that he spots Richie and Alex curled around the skinny, small beta as though to protect him, Antonio sleeping soundly against Richie, his curls falling into his face. Sean grins as he carefully pulls a blanket over the sleeping trio.    
  
“Night wolves,” He says softly with a warm smile as he turns on his heel and leaves the wolves to sleep, still curled up together.    



	22. champion (max/pierre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m leaving,” The words were like a knife to Pierre’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like a mini valentines fic for my wonderful saltmate Emma, who is always there for me when I need it, love you saltmate. Enjoy <3

“I’m leaving,” The words were like a knife to Pierre’s heart. “Real Madrid said they’re interested and well-” Max glances down at the floor, his eyes unwilling to meet his boyfriends, focusing instead on their clasped hands.    
  
There’s dryness in Pierre’s throat, dryness that he knows he can’t get rid of. He tries to process the information as it moves around and round inside his brain - tries to process the fact that Max wants to leave him, wants to leave their home. He knows that Real Madrid have had their eye on Max for a while - that they’ve sent scouts to their matches - that Zinedine has gone on and on about how skilful a player he is, how badly he wants somebody like Verstappen for his team - Pierre isn’t stupid. He’s known Max since they were little - the two of them harbouring similar ambitions and whispering as they were tucked underneath Max’s Ajax duvet, glancing up at the poster of Ronaldo that hangs on the ceiling.    
  
“One day, that’s going to be us,” Max says, determination in his tone.    
  
“You mean you-” Pierre begins but Max shakes his head, his eyes almost steel blue.    
  
“No, I mean us, that is going to be me and you one day,” Max says.    
  
Pierre isn’t sure he believed him then. But he believed that Max would make it - the skinny boy who adored Real Madrid even then, who pleaded with his father to get the iconic white shirt. They grew up after that, grew into teenagers, yet Max remained loyal to Real Madrid and the poster of Ronaldo remained on the ceiling, fading and curling around the edges eventually. The two boys remained friends, kept playing football. They got lucky, both caught the eye of some scout - ended up playing in some League Two clubs at first before making their way up to where they are now. Pierre remembers when things began to change between them, when he wore blush on his cheeks when he spotted Max’s developing muscles in the shower. They’ve danced through puberty together, been through everything together - and now Max is off to Madrid, he’s leaving Pierre for the first time in their lives -    
  
“W-What do you mean?” Pierre finally gets the words out, they’re like sludge binding to his tongue.    
  
“Madrid, they want me,” Max repeats, his eyes still on his feet, his teeth caught between his lip. “And I think I am going to say yes,”   
  
Pierre feels like he’s going to be sick. He thinks about what life is going to be like without Max by his side, thinks about the possibility of scoring a goal without Max by his side. Who would push him to go further? Who would tug on his shirt to comfort him when he misses a penalty? Who would be the first to jump on him when he scored a goal? He tries to imagine Max in the pure white of Madrid instead of the red he’s used to - he can’t see it, Max was supposed to wear red.    
  
“Pear?” Max says again, shattering the silence. “Pear, please say something,”   
  
But Pierre can’t. He thinks only of their first kiss, long overdue in the club showers when they were the last ones to leave, when they pushed against each other under the warm water, hair plastered against their foreheads. Pierre can still taste Max’s lips against his own, he can still remember how Max’s lips felt against his own - slightly warm and chapped. He remembers everything that unfolded after that - remembers their hands folding over each other, their bodies following into slightly dampened sheets.    
  
“Pierre,” Max’s voice cuts through his thoughts again.    
  
“Sorry, I just…” Pierre says, pushing a hand over his face. “I just never-”   
  
“Never, what?” Max asks, his eyes slowly meeting Pierre’s. He squeezes his boyfriend’s hand. “You can tell me,”

 

Pierre bites down on his lip, pain echoing through it for a moment, iron spreading over his mouth. “Sorry, I just, it’s a lot of news to take in-”   
  
“I wanted this. I didn’t want my life to be like...a regret-” Max says, looking away again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant...like I don’t want to look back and wish I’d done it-”   
  
Pierre can’t speak.    
  
“And like you know how much I wanted this-” Max says, squeezing his hand. “You understand, don’t you?”   
  
“I can’t believe t-this-” Pierre finally mutters out, finding it hard to pull the breath into his lungs. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, that y-you’re leaving me-”   
  
“I thought you’d understand-” Max sounds hurt.    
  
“Max, you’re going to  _ Madrid _ ,”   
  
“And?” Max says, ripping his hand away. “I thought you would understand, more than anyone, I thought you would understand why I have to do this,”   
  
“You didn’t even consider me in all of this!” Pierre snaps, tears building in the corners of his eyes. “You just pressed ahead like I didn’t even matter!”   
  
“Of course you matter!” Max screams back. “I just...this is something I’ve wanted all my life, Pierre, I thought you would fucking understand what this means to me!”   
  
“Then go!” Pierre says, tears blurring his vision. “Go!” His hand shakes as he thrusts his finger in the direction of the door. He can’t believe it’s coming to this - that they’re coming to this, that they’re screaming at each other, that there’s tears on his face. Max says nothing else as he pushes past Pierre, as the door slams shut and Pierre is left alone with his own thoughts. Tears continue to fall down his face as he glances over at the mantlepiece, at the photograph of them - the one from the Champions League - when Pierre had just scored and Max had dived on him, their faces are full of ecstasy, their faces flushed with sweat. It was a moment that Pierre always kept in his thoughts, but it seems so long ago now - now that the apartment seems empty, now that Max is gone.    
  
He closes his eyes, the tears still falling down his cheeks as he goes back to that moment, when they laid on the grass together, when the smell of fresh turf and sweat overtook everything. He remembers how they stared into each other’s eyes as the shouts of the crowd rolled over them, how in that moment they were one. Now they’re shattered, in pieces, and Max is about to swap his red shirt for a white one and they’re going to fall apart. The tears seem to fall faster at that moment as Pierre fights to swipe them away, as he clings to the memory of what they were.    
  
“I’ll do it, I’ll fly out in the morning,” Max says into the phone, tears falling down his cheeks. The pain in his chest is unbearable. His hands curl into fists as he too thinks about that night in Europe, when they laid together on the wet grass, the screams of the crowd echoing around them.    
  
They’re not the same people anymore. And months from now, they’ll meet again but this time, Max won’t be at Pierre’s side in the everpresent red, he’ll be in white.  


End file.
